


It's obvious, isn't it?

by Larsini



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clueing for Looks, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, It's For a Case, John Is So Done, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Murder Mystery, Mycroft's Meddling, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-13 19:28:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7983460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larsini/pseuds/Larsini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not a case in weeks.<br/>Sherlock Holmes is bored out of his mind, quite literally, and while his friend and partner John Watson tries to break through to him and muster some lenience, his flatmate's constant insanity is spreading his patience thin as well. What they really need is something to distract themselves, a mystery to solve, a secret to uncover, and when they finally find one it is unlike any other they encountered so far.</p><p>DISCLAIMER: I feel terribly sorry for everyone who bookmarked this, but I simply can't see myself continuing it atm.<br/>I will regularly give it a new try and hopefully continue one day (might be next week, might be next year), but I don't want to force it for the sole sake of updating. Thank you, & sorry - I hope I'll be able to get past my block one day. :)<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. SHERLOCK

There was nothing worse than boredom.

Three weeks since their last case. Three... _bloody_ weeks. He usually didn't curse, not even in his mind, but right now... right now his mind was a war zone. A tangled mess, a whirling nightmare, a toxic wasteland, unfocused and foggy and _hungry_ , and while the seconds trickled past he could feel each and every one of them scrape his raw nerves and feed the tormenting itch of frustration, could feel his thoughts turn into shreds of make-believe and would-bes and what-ifs, lost without a center to spiral around, shambolic without a subject to latch on to. Images, numbers, formulas and puzzle pieces, fragments of facts and imagination tumbled through the dark, chaotic and frantic and irritating, and whenever he tried to hold on to one of them, tried to secure a target for his flaming thirst, it just slipped away again and dragged a myriad of ragged tatters with it to further clog his mind and suffocate his focus and drive him bloody mental.

It was only when he realized that someone was yelling at him that the mist parted and the raging died down and he found himself dragged back into the world. The _physical_ world. He could feel his heart beat to his throat, startled by the sudden interruption of something tangible, but at the same time a familiar feeling of disdain welled up inside and made him wish he could just go back to the bedlam inside his head. Everything was better than _this_.

But John was staring at him, his face mere inches away, and the searing glare of anger and concern and frustration was enough to keep Sherlock's mind connected to reality – for now.

He snarled.

''Tell me you have a case, John.'' He pushed himself off the sofa, nearly crashing his face into that of his partner, and bared his teeth. ''A case, _now_!''

''Get a hold on yourself!'' John snapped back, clearly in no mood to comply and unmistakably annoyed. That bloody fool. Sherlock groaned and threw himself around, shortly savored the distraction of a short jolt of pain shooting through his skull when he hit his head on the arm rest of the sofa, then descended back into the mist.

Once more John jerked him out of it.

''Sherlock, stay with me – I've had enough of this!''

''Go away, John. Go away and find me a case! I am starving, John, I am a husk, an empty shell, I will stab you in your sleep to get some bloody murder on my hands, you hear me? Go! _Away_!'' He shoved the doctor off of him and fell back into the cushions, hardly satisfied by the angry curse that followed when John stumbled over the coffee table.

''You're out of your mind!'' he heard, and the detective exhaled a deep sigh, glad he understood, and nodded.

'' _Yes_. Yes, yes, _yes_! I... I'm going insane, John. I need. A case. Now, _please_!'' He shot up into a sitting position, stared at his toppled friend, felt his body protest when it finally managed to make itself noticed. His stomach was aching, his head was hurting, his eyes burned and his lips tasted of copper, and there was a suffocating dizziness whirling through his mind and further numbing him. It was _unbearable_.

John scowled at him, a familiar mixture of confusion and hurt and ire burning in his eyes, and Sherlock narrowly avoided to roll his eyes. Not that it mattered, not _now_ , but showing the man how tedious it was, how pointless to put up with his emotions and expectations and aspirations, would only lead to further... chitchat. Somehow John still hadn't gotten it into his head, and in his current state Sherlock was in no mood to open his eyes.

''You get up right _now_ ,'' the doctor declared while struggling back to his feet, ''and then you will take a shower and _eat_ and go to sleep, you hear me? Stop... parading through your mind palace or whatever it is you do, stop mewling, stop acting like a bloody child and be sensible, for once!''

'' _Sensible_.'' Sherlock sneered, and his eyes found John's while a chilly calm spread in his chest, not pleasant, but enough to momentarily soothe his thoughts. He didn't want to hurt him, not really, but there were times when his friend was asking for it, and it helped. He needed that. For a short moment, a delicious heartbeat only the fog cleared, and the blade of his mind came cutting sharp and swift when he let his sense of perception off the leash. ''Is this your insecurities speaking again? Elevating yourself to my handler won't eliminate your shortcomings, John, so stop using me as a means for your salvation and start with yourself. You haven't shaved for two days, you haven't left the house for three, lived off takeout and Mrs. Hudson's lenience, and judging by the wrinkles in your shirt and the lines on your face you have only just gotten up after falling asleep fully clothed again, hardly rested and therefore petulant, now coming to me to accuse me of whatever you think it is I am doing and erase all feeling of guilt over your own... deterioration.'' He had leaned forward while speaking, never blinking, never slowing down, had shot his words at John like bullets on a battlefield, and yes – John's face went pale.

It wasn't nice, but the calm in his head was worth it.

''You...''

''Spare me.'' Sherlock propelled himself off the sofa and darted past his flatmate, ignoring the protest of his stiff joints. How long had he been lost in himself? It felt like days... probably was. Despite his analysis of John's behavior during the past few days – which was of course correct, evidence didn't lie – he couldn't remember anything, too caught in his restless trance. It hardly mattered. He picked up his violin and the bow in passing, stormed to his usual spot by the window and prepared to let his mind flow freely... if it would. Maybe venting some of the burning creativity charring his synapses would ease the pressure, but – it wouldn't be enough. Never was. Hurling insults at John had hardly helped at all, and even improvising and composing could only do so much. He was trapped, with no sign of relief to come any time soon, and while his fingers began to move on their own accord and the sweet intensity of the weeping violin blurred out the madness his mind had already wandered on, frantically searching for a purpose.

If only he hadn't kicked the heroin.

Behind him John was still staring at him, then snarling, finally shouting and insulting him, but Sherlock hardly heard him, instead filed the words to examine them later... when he wasn't so full of malice. If only John could understand how _tightly_ he was constricting himself, how much effort it was to not simply obliterate him... but whether he knew or not hardly changed anything at all. No use in fighting. No use in hurting. Sentimental, that was what it was, no use in mincing word. He could _feel_ Mycroft's disdainful sneer at that, could see it if he was standing right next to him, and as usual it only served to fuel his defiance.

So what if he was sentimental? He didn't need to be – he could stop any time, could end this whenever he pleased. No, he was _not_ sentimental, not trapped by some conceived concept of misguided maudlin... he did it because he _wanted_ it, Mycroft be damned, and he did it  well _._ John was his friend, if that was the right word for it, the only person who actually got through him, the only one of the whole lot who wasn't so awfully dull and boring and narrow-minded – no, of course he _was_ all that, but still, there was more to him, something a little more interesting, something that craved danger and excitement and an escape from boredom like Sherlock did, and in a way that was all that he needed it to be... and they had saved each other's lives, hadn't they? So it wasn't sentiment, wasn't misplaced softness or some delusion of normality, it was... something else entirely. Justified. Rational. _Worth_ it.

And Mycroft's opinion wouldn't change anything about it.

John was still ranting in the background, angry and hurt and out of patience, and Sherlock sucked in some breath through clenched teeth, then forced himself to listen to the accusations while his bow raced over the strings, the familiar movement easing some of the pressure, and finally, after what felt like an eternity, he ended his lament with a shrill note and spun around, nearly impaling John with his bow when he pointed it at his face.

''You. Me. We're going out. Twenty minutes sharp, and for heaven's sake, shave!'' With swift movements he placed the violin back in its case, incidentally wondering when the idea had seeped into his mind and where it had even come from, then discarding it. Didn't matter. Going out sounded good, there were people, there was life, there were hints and clues and secrets, and even if none of them held any thrill it might just serve to keep his stumbling thoughts distracted long enough to use up his physical reserves and finally fall asleep.

''Definitely not.'' The words tumbled over John's lips as if he wasn't even listening to himself, an involuntary, automated, defiant response without any reason whatsoever, and the rapid blinking of his eyes – once, twice, thrice, yes, he was at a loss – was a sight so familiar Sherlock had to grin. After nearly a year John still believed he could defy him. It was so charming.

''Won't take you like that,'' Sherlock snarled into his flatmate's face, unwilling to let him slip behind his defenses with no more effort than looking utterly thunderstruck, and flicked his finger against the stubbly cheek in passing. Other than John he had no growth of beard to speak of – which was good, as he wouldn't have liked it anyway – but something about the way the restive stubble on soft skin felt against his fingertips was quite delightful. Not delightful enough to take John out while looking like a hedgehog, but it served to calm his temper a little.

''I don't... what if I have plans? Or don't want to?'' John snarled, still angry, utterly oblivious to everything that had been going on in Sherlock's mind over the last three seconds. That again. The detective rolled his eyes and disappeared in the kitchen.

''You don't and you do, now hurry ere I lose focus again.''

''Sherlock, you can't...''

''I can, and I just did. Now hurry, I _want_ it.''

''What I want,'' John called back, and already his voice sounded less annoyed, more resigned, and Sherlock couldn't entirely suppress a smug smile while he stormed into his room. ''...is for you to not behave like a total moron. Just _once._ Is that too much to ask?''

''You are _adorable_ ,'' Sherlock yelled back, allowing himself a grin. The raging was still there, somewhere in the back of his mind, his body was complaining in a rather nerving way and he could see his sight blur and his temples ache whenever he moved his head, clearly more exhausted than he had at first anticipated, but at last, _finally_ he had something to do. It wasn't much, it wasn't interesting, it was only John, but it would suffice.

From the parlor he could hear his friend's curse, then the telling sound of footsteps on the stairs, and already the world felt a little less agonizing.

 


	2. JOHN

Sherlock was a madman, there was no putting it gently.

In a way John had grown used to his abuse, his thoughtlessness, his dismissive comments and snide remarks. Sherlock had always been like that, ever since they had first met, and after nearly a year it was undeniable that, no matter how insignificantly, he _had_ grown softer. That he tried to pay attention – at least sometimes – and that not everything that John or said was automatically inferior. It usually was, but at least Sherlock no longer felt the need to point it out every time, and considering his character that was as close to consideration as it got. He wasn't kind, never had been, and John knew him too well by now to take it personal. Sometimes it hurt, of course it did – the man was a bloody genius, impossible to fool and mercilessly accurate in his observations, so every hit was a bull's eye – but it was bearable. They were friends, after all, and despite all his shortcomings Sherlock was the best friend John had ever had.

Maybe that said more about him than the detective.

Either way, his sneers and snarls and mockery weren't new, but tonight... tonight it was different. Tonight John was seriously fed up, at the end of his patience, genuinely contemplating to just pack his bags and leave and wait for Sherlock to figure it out by himself. Explaining it was pointless either way, and they just couldn't go on like that, not if John planned on keeping his sanity which he very much did. Sherlock was a madman, and it was bloody contagious - that was the only explanation for sitting in a bar like this, both of them too exhausted to even notice what they were drinking, eyes burning, limbs heavy and thoughts a mixed up mess. It was pointless and ridiculous to even leave the house in such a state, and yet John hadn't been able to just shut it down and stay at home.

Sherlock had that effect.

Sometimes he hated him.

''You need a new razor,'' Sherlock murmured next to him, eyes fixed on his glass. It was some kind of beer, maybe – John hadn't been paying attention – and the detective seemed simultaneously bored and fascinated by watching the small bubbles of air travel to the surface. He was in a horrible state, and it had only grown worse since they had come here.

John frowned at the remark and slowly raised his hand to run it over his cheek.

''Did I miss something?''

''I said...'' Sherlock exhaled and lifted his gaze. ''A new _razor_. The light bulb is fine, but...'' He shortly stopped and scowled, parting his lips as if he was waiting for something, then blinked and shook his head before he continued. ''...the third blade is dull and the grip isn't right. Angle's odd. Ah...'' He blinked again. ''What was I saying?''

''New razor.''

''Oh, right.'' He frowned. ''Boring.''

''Start mewling and I'll hit you.'' John knew how erratic Sherlock could be when he was... _bored_. Their little argument after he had woken him had been the best example. The man was a walking catastrophe.

''If you do, call Bart's.''

''St. Thomas is...''

''Closer, yes, but I just had... an idea.'' The detective blinked again, and even in the dim light of the pub John could see how red and swollen his eyes were. ''Need some skin tissue.''

''Don't do that.'' The doctor sighed and shook his head. ''You're preying on her. If anyone finds out how many bodies leave the morgue without their organs... or their _head_...''

'' _Skin_ , John... no one will notice.''

''It's despicable.''

''It's cheap.''

''It's perverted, wrong and disgusting, especially when I want to have breakfast and find a decomposing hand in the crisper.''

''It's science, don't be petty.'' Sherlock sounded as unconcerned by his complaints as ever, entirely caught up in his mind. The only difference was that usually he managed to sit up straight, speak without a slur and not look like a walking corpse. His fatigue was so obvious that John couldn't help but wonder whether he would even remember going out tonight - which brought him to the question of what he was supposed to do if Sherlock passed out, because he _definitely_ wouldn't carry him. Not after being treated like an idiot again. If he hadn't known it was fruitless he would have addressed the problem immediately, but one look at the dazed detective put an end to that idea.

He really shouldn't have given in.

''So... feeling better already?'' John took another sip of his beer, and the bitter freshness helped to clear his mind a bit and ease the enervation. Sherlock tilted his head and gave him a puzzled looks from under half-closed lids.

''Than what?''

''Than you did before?''

''Oh.'' The detective raised his brows and blinked a few times, apparently trying to gather some focus. ''Do we have a case?''

''No. We are in a pub, you idiot.''

''Why?'' His head softly swayed from one side to the other, and his eyes seemed to grow darker with every passing second. Dark and dull, a sight so unfamiliar – and telling – that John gritted his teeth.

''Because you said so. You... forced me here!''

''Ah... no. I'd never do that.'' He shoved his drink aside, propped his arms on the counter and laid down his head, leaving John to glower at him. Fantastic. Not the first time he had been in the situation of having his best friend at the time fall asleep next to him while in a pub, but usually it was due to alcohol, not because they were incorrigible idiots without any regard for their health. He had never seen the detective like that, so tired and unfocused and confused, and while the doctor in him was worried and wanted Sherlock to feel better, the friend – the fed up, abused, fuming friend – found it to be well-deserved.

The tangled mess of dark locks next to him shivered when Sherlock shook his head, apparently darting in and out of a restless daze, and John sighed and sipped his beer again. He was feeling tired himself, wanted to go home and sleep... but he knew he couldn't. He'd only lie awake for hours, stare at the ceiling, listen for signs of his friend moving around the flat. It made no sense, he had never been like that, had always found something to occupy himself – read a book, go for a run, work out or maybe call a friend and have some coffee, but as of late his whole life had changed. He wasn't the same person he had been, couldn't just... shrug it off. He was like a drug addict waiting for a fix, and being exhausted and frustrated like he was right now was the only reason he could admit that to himself. He needed a distraction. _They_ needed a case.

They'd hardly find one here.

An eternity and two beer later the mess of brilliance and arrogance and fatigue next to him murmured something unintelligible, and John blinked and turned his head.

''What?'' No answer. ''Sherlock?'' He prodded his shoulder.

''W-what?'' He shot up, eyes wide, and stared at his friend, obviously fighting for focus after being jerked out of his twitchy sleep, hardly rested. ''What?''

''I was asking...'' John's eyes narrowed when he took in his friend's disoriented look. ''What did you say?''

''What? What did... _you_ say?'' Sherlock pressed a hand against his forehead and shortly closed his eyes, then lowered it to stare at his glass and frowned in confusion when his mind began rotating again. ''Why are we still here?''

''You wanted to come here.''

''But that was...'' He paused, some thoughts racing past his pale eyes. ''Two hours ago.''

''Surprised you remember.'' John managed a dark smirk, less and less amused by the minute. This was tedious. Sherlock huffed and seamlessly slipped into detective mode, apparently not even noticing.

''I don't. I see it... it's obvious. Your back is slightly bent, indicating a stomach ache that most likely results from alcohol consumption, and your speech is slurred. You don't get the stomach ache before the third beer, but if you had more than five you'd call me 'Sh'lock'.'' The empty expression on his face as he mechanically recited the 'facts' shortly shifted, and John thought he saw a hint of amusement in his tired eyes. ''On average you take about fifteen minutes for a beer, then wait just as long before you order the next, but your eyes are bloodshot, your hair is disheveled and your lips are pale, indicating a lack of sleep, which means you are tired, which means you took your time today.'' His eyes darted to John's glass. ''Third or fourth beer, impossible to distinguish... no, fourth. Your eyes are unsteady, relatively sure sign. Four beers, about forty minutes each, that leaves us with two hours and a half...''

''Amazing,'' John murmured through clenched teeth, sarcasm audible, then shot his friend a critical glance. ''How do _you_ know how I drink my beer? No, scratch that... why do you bother to remember, hm? Was it ever critical to solve a case?''

''You said we are... friends.'' After the rapid muttering of his conclusions Sherlock's voice now sounded slightly slurred and held a hint of insecurity, as if he didn't mean to impose the term on them without John's definite approval, as if he couldn't damn well deduce their friendship by himself. It was as thoughtful as Sherlock ever got, clearly a consequence of his disoriented state, and if John hadn't been so angry it might have soothed him. Right now, however, it didn't.

'' _So?_ ''

''So... I am watching you, John. That's what people do when they are on friendly terms, isn't it? Watch each other?'' The question seemed to puzzle the detective, and his porcelain skin crinkled when he frowned in musing. ''Besides, it's hardly a secret.''

''I have been drinking in your presence... what? Like twice? Do you ever even _listen_ to yourself?'' If he hadn't been so tired, if Sherlock hadn't plucked him apart the way he had, if they were anywhere else right now he would have been amused. Instead his hand tightened around the glass, and he felt the cold biting his fingers and a cool drop of condensate running over the back of his hand. It was the only thing that kept him focused right now. Focused on Sherlock and his bloody stupidity.

''Always. It's fascinating.'' Sherlock raised his hand and pressed it against his mouth to stifle a yawn, then blinked sleepily and shook his head as if to dispel the change of topics. The conversation seemed to keep him awake. ''I based it on your average. It is far from accurate, but...''

''Sherlock, the things I told you about, the things you just don't do, remember that?'' John gritted his teeth. ''This is one of them.''

''Don't be like that, John, I...''

''It's creepy. Keeping tabs about everything I do, anatomizing my life... don't.'' He would have liked to stress his point somehow, but Sherlock wasn't the only one too tired for any of this, so he restrained himself to glaring at his partner before taking another swig of beer.

''What else am I supposed to do, start some mindless rant like they do in the movies?'' the detective snapped sulkily. ''You are boring when you drink, I had to do _something_ to keep myself occupied.''

''Thank you.''

''For what?'' He looked genuinely confused, but quickly shifted topics before John could answer. ''Did you see a doctor?''

''I _am_ a doctor... what about?'' He didn't care. He really didn't care. Sherlock always did that, changed the subject as if everyone else could just look inside his mind and follow, and if he hadn't been so dazed and distracted, if he hadn't closed both hands around the edge of the counter to keep himself in an upright position, John would have suspected he only did it to provide himself with an opportunity to display that smug, awfully arrogant look of amused lenience again. The _Fac_ e. John hated it.

But Sherlock was close to falling asleep on the spot, pale, shivering and speaking in a slow, silent manner that was completely unlike him, and so the mental leap was probably nothing to feel insulted by. Bloody hell, he was a pain.

''Your apnea. You should.'' Despite his fatigue Sherlock looked serious. John blinked, momentarily confused.

''My... wait, no. _No_. I don't...''

''You do. A lot. I didn't mention it because I thought it might be a cold, but you are perfectly healthy, so...'' The detective's hand weakly fluttered through the air like a lazy butterfly, then landed on the counter without its usual grace, and he tilted his head and hissed silently when his neck elicited a sharp crack. John gaped at him, anger rising once again.

''Did you... did you watch me sleep?!'' he thundered, ignoring the surprised look the passing bartender gave them. Sherlock frowned again, clearly amazed at his sudden fury.

''...yes?''

''Sherlock!''

''What?''

''You sneaked into my room while I was sleeping!'' This was too much. John bared his teeth. This couldn't be happening. Sherlock scowled, brows knitted, trying to puzzle out what he had done. Finally he shook his head, looking smug and insulted at the same time.

''You are a sound sleeper, quite remarkable considering your military past, so I assume you trust me not to smother you with a pillow, which you really shouldn't do – we have more than enough enemies to take that burden off my hands.'' He tapped a slender finger against his lower lip. ''On second thought, they wouldn't come for _you_ , and no one sneaks past me, so scratch that. Either way, you are far too oblivious to notice me, so technically it wasn't sneaking.''

''Did you knock?'' Bloody bastard.

''Of course not, you were sleeping. It might have woken you.'' The look of utter innocence on his face was as charming as it was angering. John exhaled and closed his eyes, forcing himself to not lash out. It wouldn't work. It wouldn't help in the slightest. He wouldn't even understand it, damn child-minded fool that he was. Finally John licked his lips and stared at him.

''You are... bloody hell. Stop being creepy, Sherlock.'' His voice was calm, but the sharpness was unmistakable, eliciting a sulky frown from his partner.

''I am giving medical advice...''

''To a doctor! I am a doctor, Sherlock, don't presume...''

''You wouldn't know without me.'' A hint of annoyance had crept on the man's face, and his lips twisted. ''You feel the need to vent your energy by patronizing me, but you don't want me to repay the... _favor_. Either you harbor some rather grave misconceptions about our dynamics, or you have given in to that lonely soldier routine again, which is just pathetic.'' He shook his head, and for a few seconds John couldn't help but stare at him. This was... so typical. So Sherlock. He just didn't get it.

''Personal boundaries!'' he hissed and leaned a little closer, angry enough to have his mind spring back to life and tell him that there was no need to entrust the entire bar with their little argument. Not that it mattered, there was hardly anyone around, but still. No need to tell the world that Sherlock Holmes was entirely incapable of understanding the basic rules of human interaction. Damn him. ''Personal boundaries, you know what they are?''

''Yes.'' Sherlock looked bored. ''Never understood them.''

''I _know_!''

''Then why throw such a fit?'' There it was. The _Face_. John bit his lower lip, tempted to hit the man.

''I don't want you in my room while I sleep, do you understand that?''

''Oh, grow up.'' Now the detective sounded truly derogatory. ''You parade all those miserable creatures through there, desperately searching for... whatever it is you crave, some approval and sexual relief, I guess, whatever good that will do – and yet you object to _me_? Don't be ridiculous.''

''Approval and sexual relief,'' John echoed weakly. Had they really descended this far?

His features hardened.

''If you want to play it that way, _fine_ , I'll comply - you provide neither, so stay out of my room!'' he snarled into his friend's face, and for a moment Sherlock looked dumbfounded. Then he grinned.

''If you can't act your age you should at least make a sign. Something nice and expressive, with crayons and exclamation marks.'' The grin grew sly. ''Am I still invited for your pillow fort?''

''You...'' John stared into Sherlock's eyes, desperately trying to stay angry. To not give in. But Sherlock grinning – genuinely grinning, not just smirking – was such a seldom sight that he couldn't help it. ''You dork.'' His shoulders twitched, and he rested his forehead against his partner's shoulder and began to laugh. ''You bastard. I hate you.''

''I take that as a yes.'' A soft ripple escaped the detective's throat, and then they were both laughing, wiping tears out of their eyes and starting anew whenever their glances crossed. It was relieving. It was liberating. It was awfully exhausting.

''Did you mean that?'' Sherlock finally asked, minutes later, when they both had calmed down again and leaned on the counter top, slightly breathless and so tired they had trouble to keep their eyes open. John frowned.

''Mean... what?''

''That I am not allowed in your room unless I pat you on the head or provide sexual favors.'' Sherlock yawned. ''Honestly, both options sound awful.''

''A 'well done' once in a while wouldn't hurt,'' John murmured darkly. Damn him, him and his utter inability to understand the concept of human... everything. Solve a murder with a single glance? No problem. Not be a creep? Impossible. ''Does it even matter what I want?'' he asked at last and sipped his beer, nearly emptying it. Sherlock shrugged, glassy eyes fixed on something far away.

''I don't...'' He hesitated, as if he had trouble finding the words. Finally he cleared his throat. ''I'll try.''

''You don't _what_?'' John asked, sensing something. Maybe it was nothing, but then again with Sherlock it never was. His answer was a sigh.

''I don't mean to... alienate you.'' The statement was followed by a scowl, then the detective slowly raised his glass and grimaced at the taste. ''This is awful.''

''It's been standing around for hours, what do you expect.'' John yawned and felt his eyes burn. They had gone out. They had talked. Maybe Sherlock would finally agree to go home and sleep... he better. Knocking him out and dragging him to Baker Street sounded strangely tempting right now, especially if it resulted in something that hurt. A broken nose maybe. John smiled at the fantasy.

Sherlock's lips twitched.

''Imagining manhandling me again?''

''You're asking for it.'' He wasn't even surprised that the detective knew, not anymore. He was a fool, but far from stupid. ''And you are not alienating me, you bloody oaf. You're creeping me out and tempting me to risk jail time.''

''Oh. Good.'' Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and then he boldly downed his beer, his expression mixture of disgust and agony. ''I want to go home.''

''Finally.'' John exhaled and sent a quick prayer to whoever would listen. ''Thank you so much.''

''For what?'' The puzzled look again. ''I thought...''

''What?'' John asked, smiling with relief. _Sleep_.

Sherlock blinked, and it looked strangely hurt.

''I thought you might enjoy it.'' The moment passed and his eyes grew distant again. He blinked and set down his glass again. ''I'll call a cab.''

''Wait, what?'' John's smile disappeared as quickly as it had come, and when Sherlock tried to push past him he held him back, staring into his face. It was an unreadable mask, pale and empty. ''Enjoy this?'' He couldn't entirely bite back a hysterical chuckle. '' _This_?''

''That's what you usually do,'' Sherlock replied with a chill. All vulnerability had vanished from his face, from his voice. He was back to bastard mode. John frowned.

''I don't usually hang around in a bar until I can barely keep myself awake by watching over some careless fool,'' he replied, and Sherlock's features hardened a little more.

''No. Usually you do all that, then return to Baker Street at three in the morning, dead drunk and grinning, and tell me how much fun you had.'' With a short twist of his wrist he had freed himself from John's grip and then he was already at the door and gone in a heartbeat, as if he was intent to leave his friend behind as quickly as possible. The doctor stared after him, at an utter loss.

He couldn't really be _that_ dense, could he? His frown deepened, and after a few seconds he exhaled sharply and pursed his lips.

Of course he could. He was Sherlock Holmes.

Damn idiot.

With a sigh he tossed some notes on the counter, emptied his glass and followed him.

 


	3. SHERLOCK

It was Christmas in his mind palace.

There were lights and music, and he seemed to be floating. His mind was twisted, torn between things that had been, things that couldn't be, memories and faces and facts and melodies, but it didn't matter, didn't hurt, didn't discomfort him the way uncertainty usually did. It was... fine. He could move, but he couldn't control it. He could think, but he couldn't ponder. He could talk, but he couldn't hear himself. He could watch, but he couldn't interfere. So many colors, movements, so many faces and the gleaming of stars and ideas and opportunity, the laughter, the tunes, the thousand scents, not entirely strange and not exactly familiar at once... it was beautiful and overwhelming and horrifying, and when he felt his world tumble and turn and topple and tear, when the music faded and the lights went down and he found himself halfway between his mattress and the ground, tangled in his sheets with just enough time to realize this would _hurt_ , he didn't know what to feel, now that the blinding splendor of his unobserved creativity had faded and reality jerked him back into its harsh embrace. Regret, relief, confusion... and definitely pain. He groaned and slowly turned, shifted on his side, then rolled on his back and wiped a hand over his lips. It came away wet and bloody, and his skull seemed close to splitting. His pulse was racing. His nose hurt, his lips throbbed, his chin burned.

He felt better than he had for weeks.

''Sherlock?!'' John's voice sounded distant, muffled by closed doors and walls, and he could hear the sound of quick footsteps on the wooden panels of the parlor, the linoleum of the kitchen and then in the hallway, and a weak grin slipped on Sherlock's lips before the door to his room was ripped open and John rushed inside. The detective craned his neck and gave his friend an upside down look, and then his face froze when the sight released an avalanche inside his mind.

Bloody hell, what had he done?

''Jesus... what on Earth are you doing?'' John asked and shook his head, obviously relieved to find him like this, slightly injured instead of... something. He leaned a shoulder against the door frame and studied him. ''Your lip's cracked.''

''All the makings of a great detective,'' Sherlock heard himself reply, but he couldn't listen. Not to himself. Not now. _What had he done?_ John sighed and came closer, went down next to him, stared into his face.

''You plan on spending your day down here?''

_The bar._

''Sherlock?''

_The taxi._

''Sherlock? What, is there something on my face?''

_The things he had said._

''Sherlock!'' A slap ripped him out of his thoughts, and he blinked. It hadn't hurt, not really, and yet John's face held a sheepish expression, as if he regretted hitting him. He was too adorable.

But not angry.

His face was cleanly shaven – better than before, so he had finally bought a new razor, good, the old one had been horrible, wait, hadn't they talked about that as well, God damn it his mind was a _mess_ \- and his eyes were clear and alert, his hair was combed, his clothes were fresh, his breath smelled of coffee, there was a hint of marmalade as well so he had eaten already, the light was falling in a way that told him it couldn't be past twelve, John had slept well and showered and eaten and left the house and _what had he done and why wasn't John angry, why was he smiling what had happened whywashe_ _ **FINE**_ _?!_

Sherlock blinked.

''You look good,'' he said while his mind hammered with the question of ' _why?!_ ', and John frowned and smirked, the way he usually did when Sherlock had said something funny again – funny to him, that was. He was never saying anything funny unless he wanted to, but John was peculiar like that, him and the rest of the world.

''Thanks, Romeo. Now get up and let me take a look at that lip. Slept well?'' He sounded awfully relaxed. Friendly. Well-rested and composed and amused. What the... Sherlock blinked again. He was at a loss. Why? Had he hit his head so hard? No. No nausea, no blurred edges in his vision, and an excursion to his inner depths confirmed that everything was still in place. So it wasn't him who made no sense. It was John.

''Sherlock, get up, I won't let you become like that again. I know the signs of a lobotomy, and although it would be well-deserved you didn't get one, so get up!'' John's hands closed around his shoulder and pulled him into a sitting position, and Sherlock complied, to occupied by the puzzle in his mind to resist. Why wasn't John angry? He couldn't be... imagining it, right? There was something. Something that made him feel like a fool, something that had been wrong, a line he had crossed, something... something, but _what_?

''What happened?'' he murmured and blinked, light stinging in his eyes. The sheets slipped off his shoulder, and when the cool air of his room hit his bare skin he shivered a little, but he hardly noticed it. John raised a brow and got up again to find him some clothes.

''What do you mean? You falling into one of your bloody fits of madness for days, alternating between trance and insanity? Or you plucking me like a Christmas goose – again? Or you dragging me to a pub and falling asleep on me?'' His voice had grown muffled when he disappeared in the bathroom, then grew clear again when he returned, one of Sherlock's morning gowns in his hands. ''Or you _sneaking into my room at night to watch me sleep_? Which will never happen again, you hear me? I don't care what you think of it, never again!''

''That's... no.'' Sherlock frowned and ignored the morning gown landing in his lap, instead pulled the sheets a little tighter and licked some blood off his lip. ''That's not it.''

''Oh, you mean the drive home then? Very well.'' At the sound of John's voice the detective looked up. Of course there had been something, there _had_ to be. He could still feel it linger in his memory – his shredded, clouded, confusingly fragmentary memory.

John had returned to his spot in the door frame and tapped a finger against his chin, pretending to ponder, clearly preparing himself for whatever would come next. So he had made a fool of himself. Of course he had. Sherlock inhaled and rolled his eyes. This would be tedious.

''Where should I start... remember what you said about my sleeping habits?'' Now a triumphant grin broke free. ''Well, _you_ drool.''

''Oh, please.'' Sherlock frowned and slowly maneuvered into his morning gown. ''I don't.''

''You do. I took a picture. It's lovely.''

''Even if I did,'' Sherlock declared with more confidence than he felt – was that what people felt like after getting drunk? Uncertain, confused and maybe a little embarrassed? Yet another reason to never pick up a drinking habit, it was _annoying_. ''I was tired – no, _exhausted_ to the point of passing out.''

''And whiny.''

''What?!'' His head shot around. ''Don't be ridiculous.''

''Nearly cried.'' Now John was close to bursting into laughter. ''Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't laugh if it had been serious. You were just... entirely gone, it was quite endearing, really. I'm usually not that guy...''

''Which guy?''

''Oh, my...'' John rolled his eyes. ''The one that laughs at other people's emotions.''

''Of course you are not, you are far too insecure and shaken yourself, and in the long run it would only make you feel worse.'' Sherlock bared his teeth and felt for the mattress on his bed to push himself up, ignoring his aching skull as far as he could. ''You always try to patch them back together, which is enervating to watch. You can't save the world, John.''

''Thanks for the analysis. Won't be soothing you again.''

''You didn't. You are _laughing_.'' It wasn't the kind of laughter Sherlock would have taken as an attempt to hurt him – for Heaven's sake, this was _John_ – but still. It was _not_ soothing. And he just couldn't imagine himself being... _whiny_. Impossible. Thoughtful, maybe, a little less reserved, a little dizzy from the fatigue, less concerned about opening up, although there was really nothing to share in the first place, but _whiny_? Absolutely not.

''Now I am. Yesterday I allowed you to whinge all the way back from the pub, drool on my coat and fall asleep on me, you... prick.'' His voice had grown slightly agitated, but the insult came out strangely contained. Sherlock raised his brows but didn't answer, finally managing to slip back onto his bed. With a huff he rolled over and buried his face in the pillow, furtively licking the blood of his lips. What a wonderful way to start his day.

''Sherlock, you need therapy.''

''Oh, yes, definitely,'' he replied dryly, muffled by his pillow. ''See where that got you.''

''You have problems.''

''John.'' He sighed and rolled back on his bed to stare up at his friend, a wry twist on his split lips. ''Imagine, just for a moment, me talking to a therapist. Is that what you want?''

''But you...''

''I tried it once. It was boring and tedious, elementary psychology that I could have done better myself, and I would if I cared, but I don't. My mind is a universe of its own, John, you cannot apply the rules of gravity to the moon – or some other planet, come to think of it, the moon is so insignificant – and you cannot apply psychology to me. At least not to... fix me or whatever it is you want to do. I am not broken, I don't need mending, so tell me what happened last night, then make some tea if you feel so inclined and leave me alone.'' His eyes narrowed. ''I need to think.''

''Brilliant.'' John shook his head, then stepped up to the bed and sat down next to Sherlock. ''You know, you are the only person I know who is so much in love with themselves they would compare their mind to a bloody planet. And the moon is neither a planet nor is it insignificant, it is...''

''Booooring,'' Sherlock interrupted, not keen to hear another lecture about the solar system, then reached out to feel for the blanket. ''That it, then? Did I do anything else?'' He felt like an idiot, posing a question like that, but there was something. There _had_ to be. _Christmas in his mind palace_. Why was the place in such a splendid disarray without any good reason? No, there was something, he knew it.

John didn't answer.

''Watson, report.''

''No.'' John swallowed barely audible, then got up again. ''There was nothing else, but I think all that was enough, don't you? If you ever drive yourself to the point of _bloody crying in a cab_ again I'll move out. And I'll blog about it.''

''I was _not_ crying...''

''Maybe not, but you don't remember, so you might have.'' Sherlock turned to see a grin on John's face. ''You'll never know. Either way, _you_ make tea, and then you'll join me in the parlor and behave like a human being. No ranting, no groaning, no throwing things and no insulting me, or I'll tell Mrs. Hudson.'' He crossed his arms, looking serious and so very determined Sherlock would have liked to throw a pillow. As if he could order him around.

''You are obnoxious.''

''Get moving, Sherlock, your madness ends right now.'' With that John stepped out of his room, deliberately leaving the door open – he _knew_ how much Sherlock hated that – and left the detective to staring after him with a frown. A few minutes later he got up, wrapped himself tighter in his morning gown and marched into the bathroom. John wanted him alert and awake and focused? _Fine_.

He could have that.

 

 

''Yes,'' he said nearly an hour later. He was sitting on the sofa, legs crossed, a cup of tea in his hand and his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor. The sound of his own voice seemed to come from far away and guided him out of his thoughts, just in time to notice John's surprised expression when he looked up from his laptop. He was typing again. Not blogging but answering emails, judging from the look on his face and the pace of his writing, and Sherlock stared at him, still no further in his analysis of last night's events.

''Are you talking to me?''

''I am always talking to you. And you were the one posing the question.'' He remembered the tea in his hand and took a sip. It was cold. With a scowl he put it down on the coffee table, then shifted on the sofa until he could lie down, pull his legs close to his body and watch his friend from the corner of his eyes. Behind his laptop John was still confused.

''Which question?''

''Whether I feel better.'' _Why was it so difficult to figure it all out, what was he missing, why was he failing himself like that?_ ''The answer is, yes, I am feeling better.'' Something John had told him came to mind. ''...thanks for asking? I guess.'' He'd never understand that. Why would you be grateful for some superfluous inquiry? It was a waste of time at best.

John groaned and leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and huffed out his frustration.

''That was last night, Sherlock. I asked that last night, I asked more than twelve hours ago.''

''I know.'' Sherlock's gaze wandered, locked on to the ceiling. ''And this is my answer.''

''Late,'' John said. ''But okay. Glad you feel that way. See, that's what I'm telling you all the time, you might want to start listening – I _am_ a doctor. Your body needs sleep. Food.''

''It's boring.''

''It's important.''

''Why?'' Sherlock's eyes shifted back. ''Why do you care? No case, John, no one's at stake... I am not needed. Redundant. I'll be there when I have a reason, why do you care _now_?''

''Oh, come on.'' For whatever reason John's face darkened. ''Even you can't be that stupid.'' Oh. So it was the obscure regulations of _friendship_ again. Sherlock sighed, answer enough. John chirruped. ''Answer me one thing, Sherlock. If I got shot... no, if I got into an accident, right now. And I would lose... a finger. Nothing serious.'' He shoved the laptop aside and leaned forward, indicating that for some made-up reason the question he was about to pose mattered to him. ''Would you care?''

''Define care.''

''Oh, bloody hell.'' John snarled and got up, clearly enraged, and Sherlock frowned and turned his head to watch him march into the kitchen, wondering what he had done wrong this time. Why was John always making him feel like a fool? It wasn't as if it mattered, he was clearly not in danger of losing a finger right now... it was a gratuitous question at best.

Just like the question of what he had said or done last night. His face darkened even further, and he turned his back to the room and pulled his gown a little tighter. Maybe Mycroft was right after all. Maybe it was sentiment.

''I am an idiot!'' he heard John call from the kitchen. ''A damn fool for even putting up with you!'' Angry, resigned, surprised at his own realization although he had uttered those words often enough by now. Sherlock frowned into the cushions. The only foolish thing was to repeat the same statement over and over again, expecting it to have any effect, but that was John. So human. Simple, and yet Sherlock didn't understand him half as well as he pretended to.

Why did everything have to be so difficult? Why couldn't people just think and behave rational, base their lives on reason instead of some chemical illusions in their brains that could be altered by nothing more than a pretty picture or a pleasant tune? Where was the logic in that?

And why was he feeling like he was allowing himself to get caught up in that nonsense as well?

He closed his eyes, half returned to his mind palace, ears still listening for sounds from the kitchen, mind wandering the corridors and hallways, staring up and down the stairs, listening at the doors, holding out for loose ends. He didn't expect to find clarity like that, but there had to be clues... somewhere. A hint. Evidence of his last night, a trail of sensations. Reconstructing memories was tedious but far from impossible... he could do it if he wanted to, and he did, more than he normally would. John wanted him sane and focused and _here_ , and he had done everything he could to distract himself already, to keep himself... here. Now there was a riddle, a question, a mystery, insignificant and neglectable, but it was something... good enough.

_Sherlock exhaled and turned around a corner._

''We are out of milk.''

_Soft carpet under his feet. Lights shining from the lusters, polished wooden doors, framed pictures, a vase of flowers on a drawer. So many doors._

''Jesus... did you store your eyeballs in my Tupperware again? Damn it, Sherlock, that's disgusting!''

_He stopped. Waited. Watched. Scented. Nothing, nothing out of the usual... blissful calm. Wherever he had been, he was in the wrong place now. He sighed. Descended. Whatever he was looking for, it would be down, deep down, where he didn't want to go._

''You know, you were right. I'm probably the only person in the world who could be patient... no, stupid enough to share a flat with you! Don't get me wrong, it has its advantages – regular visits from bloodthirsty criminals and constant surveillance by your damn brother for example – but this is getting ridiculous!'' John was rummaging through the kitchen's contents, clanking pots and clinking glass, loud enough to have Sherlock's brow twitch in annoyance.

_It was getting darker and darker. Not unpleasant, not frightening – there was nothing here to scare him, nothing to threaten him, nothing at all – but tense. He could feel it. A chill. His steps were growing tighter. Was he getting closer? Had to be. He could taste the flavor of stale beer, could smell the dust and wood polish of the pub and John's aftershave. He was returning to their previous night, it was all coming back. The clues had to be here somewhere..._

''You know, I really wonder what you were like as a child. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to know, but still – how on Earth did your teachers put up with you? Were you always an obnoxious little brat, or did you just become like that to torment me?''

_He was nearly there. The mist of fatigue and confusion was parting. He could see the small bubbles of air float through the glass, could feel John's glare, could recall the way his tongue had felt against his chapped lips, how tiredness had dragged him down. Dozing off. Waking again. Small talk. Memories of watching John sleep, some redundant argument. The image of colorful crayon on a paper sign. Then, like a slap in the face..._

''Sherlock?''

_No. Punch in the gut, cold and chilly. He swallowed. Didn't matter now. He went further, trailed himself as he stormed outside. Cold night wind biting in his face. Passing headlights. The taxi, coming to a stop before them. John shuffling in next to him, talking to him. Asking questions._

''Sherlock? Oh, you can't be serious...''

_The ride back home. Dozing off again. The rough fabric of John's coat against his face. They were talking, murmuring. What had he said?_

''...five minutes, and you get lost again...''

_What. Had. He. Said._

''Sherlock!'' His eyes flew open, stared into John's face. He felt a grave pressure on his chest, gasped, sucked in some air and shot up, eyes wide. What the...

''Talk to me, what is... you look as pale as a wall!'' John's hand closed around his shoulder, pressed tightly, tried to lead him back. For a moment they stared at each other, Sherlock panting and breathless and void of words, John full of concern and confusion and questions.

''I...'' Sherlock licked his lips, turned his head away, blinked. Whatever he had said, he had missed it. Narrowly missed it. Whatever had gotten to him since he had woken up, it was still out there, _in_ there, untouched and dark. Whispers... receding to the shadows. Fleeing his grasp like tendrils of smoke. He scowled. ''Nothing.''

''Oh, really. Great lie. Now spit it out.'' John carefully lowered himself on the coffee table, still gripping Sherlock's shoulder as if he would just float away. ''You look like you saw a ghost.''

''You...'' His voice trailed off, got lost when he stared into John's eyes. Into the face of his friend, his only friend. Stared into the face that had told him that there had been nothing else.

 _You lied_.

That was why it made no sense. That was the piece he had been missing. John had lied. To _him_. Sherlock inhaled. John had lied to him. It wasn't so much the fact that he had done it – hell, there were a dozen reasons to lie, he did it all the time – but that he genuinely believed it could work. Lying to _him_. To _him_ of all people. Either he had forgotten... no. _No_. The hints were there, John knew, had to known - he hadn't forgotten, and he wasn't remotely stupid enough to believe he could keep it up... so he _wanted_ him to find out. Sherlock stared at him in silence, lost himself in the piercing, worried, hazel eyes, and all the weariness, the tension, the frustration seemed to fall off, seemed to peel and float away and leave him bare and sharp and trembling with gratitude. Before his inner eye, a puzzle formed, unsolved and new and exciting.

Finally he smirked.

''You,'' he just said, and John frowned.

''What?''

''You. You are...'' Sherlock breathed, felt his smile grow broader, ignored the twinge of pain when his lip broke open again. ''Thank you.''

''I have no idea what you are going on about, but yeah. You're welcome. Now could you try and act like a human being? You are scaring me, and I think you never thanked me before. Stop that.''

''Yes.'' Sherlock smoothed his gown, then tussled his locks before jumping up with refreshed vigor, eager to get started. ''What do you want to do?''

''What?'' John looked thunderstruck when Sherlock rushed past.

''Don't keep on saying 'what', it makes you sound stupid. We should... do something. Visit Bart's. Or Lestrade. Or take a walk. There's that coffee shop down Cray Street, they have the muffins you like and some nice places with a view on...''

''Sherlock.'' John had gotten up as well, followed him through the flat, past the coffee table, the desk, the arm chairs, through the kitchen and the hallway and into his room, trailed after him like the most adorable lapdog, further fueling his smile. ''Sherlock, what did you do? What did you... back there...'' He pointed a thumb over his shoulder, clearly at a loss, and Sherlock's smirk lit up again. Ah, John. Who cared whether they had fun in a pub, it was stupid and superfluous and _boring_ , but this... this was wonderful.

Maybe the nicest thing anything had ever done for him.

Sherlock gave him a gleaming grin and shrugged out of his gown, suddenly filled with energy. A case. A minor, private, unimportant case, no blood, no murder, no crime at all, but a case nevertheless. After weeks of torment John had given him the one thing he needed. He had to thank him.

''I pay. That's...'' He watched the doctor's mouth fall open. ''That's what people do when they are in a good mood, right? Spend money?'' He followed his question with raised brows, then dropped the gown on the bed and started unbuttoning his shirt.

''You... never pay,'' John said slowly, accentuating every word. ''So either you just telepathically received the message that someone snatched the Crown Jewels, strangled the Queen, painted some bloody message on the wall and flew out of the window, or you finally lost it.''

''Sounds like an interesting case... but where would the blood come from if she was strangled?''

''You know, it's scary.'' John crossed his arms and started studying his fingertips while Sherlock shrugged out of his clothes. He was polite like that. So charming. ''If there really was a regicide, I imagine that would be your reaction exactly. Our country left without its queen, and you...''

''She's just a woman, John, a symbol, no more important than the Changing of the Guard, a relic for the tourists and an excuse to keep hunting and afternoon tea alive. Although I would miss the tea.'' He could feel a faint burn on his lip when the split broke open again, but he dismissively wiped the blood away before choosing a purple shirt and yanking it off the hanger. His eyes darted to John, still staring at his fingers as if catching a glimpse of his bare chest would blind him, and a scowl appeared on his face. The shirt still in his hands he stepped closer, too close for John to ignore, and studied him from close up. John sighed and turned his head.

''I'll be in my room.''

''How,'' Sherlock murmured and held him back, feeling a spark of amusement, ''did you get me into my pyjamas last night?'' John stopped, rolled his eyes and licked his lips.

''Thanks. I was trying to delete that memory.''

''I imagine it quite tedious.''

''It was.'' John crossed his arms again and shot him a dark glance. ''Nearly had to carry you up the stairs, and then you were constantly rambling and ranting while in a daze and trying to touch my face and...''

''Excuse me?'' Sherlock straightened, slightly taken aback. ''Why would I do that?''

''You were talking about my... physiognomy.'' John nodded as if to convince himself it had really happened. ''Just so we are clear on this, Sherlock, I will never, under no circumstances, let you pat down my nose to tell my I'm a closeted serial killer or have tendency to gamble or something like that.''

''But you do, I don't need to consult your nose to know that.'' Sherlock turned away, examining the little revelation in his mind. Interesting. He had never believed in the study of facial features, but apparently some part of him wanted to. He would need to pay the whole matter some attention... once they had gone out. Once he had thought of some ways to solve this case, to convict John of his lie and set his mind at ease. He slipped into his shirt, and behind him John emitted an indignant huff.

''I don't.''

''You do, and you know it – great job on overcoming it, by the way, as far as I know, which is very far, you haven't touched a chip in several years. I imagine someone in your unit stripped you bare one night and the humiliation stung to much to give it another try?''

''How...'' John began, but quickly waved his hands through the air as if to cut his own words off. ''No, don't. Don't, I don't care, I don't want to know.'' He shortly fell silent, and in the reflection of the window Sherlock could see him watching him button his shirt. He smirked. Finally John shook his head and turned away. ''So, we're going out?''

''Yes!''

''Fine. Ten minutes.'' John shuffled away, and before he turned around to leave the flat and make his way up the stairs Sherlock could hear him mumble something. It sounded like a string of insults. He grinned and began searching for some pants.

 


	4. JOHN

John liked St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

It was the place he and Sherlock had first met, nearly a year ago, and coming here usually meant that Sherlock had engrossed himself in a case or was pursuing one of his various experiments. It made him bearable, and even if he wasn't too much of a scientist himself – to Sherlock's amusement he had never actually been that interested in medicine in and of itself – spending some time in the historic building, walking around the recently renovated corridors or chatting with Molly Hooper was a nice change from his routine. She was nice, a skilled pathologist and refreshingly normal, and he enjoyed just standing around, drinking coffee and striking a conversation about whatever came to mind.

If only she hadn't been so desperately in love with Sherlock.

The moment the detective opened the door, rushing inside the morgue without bothering to keep it from banging against the wall, her head shot up and her eyes lit up.

''Oh... hi,'' he stuttered, shortly looking to John who had followed to smile at him, then immediately turning her attention back to the detective. Seeing her beam at him like a lost puppy up for adoption was heartbreaking, and when Sherlock quickly crossed the room and only stopped an arm's length before her, blinking twice while staring at her with a distracted, clearly false smile, John couldn't help but roll his eyes. The man would have made one hell of a womanizer, if only he had cared.

''You're looking good,'' Sherlock told her with a soft smirk that seemed to take the edge of his angular face, ''much better than last week. That new haircut really brings out your eyes, you should keep it that way - it takes the focus off your lips.'' He paused for a mere heartbeat. ''I need some skin.''

''Oh, uh...'' Her face had lit up, darkened, then lit up again in rapid succession, and she obviously missed a beat when he abruptly changed the topic. John breathed out an audible sigh, leaned against the wall and crossed his arms to watch the tragedy unfold. The pathologist had been bent over a fresh corpse, a male in his forties from the look of him, and while John stared at the pale skin and postmortem lividity and tried to block out the stench of death and disinfectants, Sherlock still smiled at Molly as if she was the sole means to his salvation. He could be a real viper, and a scheming one at that.

Molly cleared her throat and licked her lips.

''I'd... love to help you, you know that, but...''

''Oh, please.'' Sherlock shortly drummed a rhythm on his thigh, then spun around and looked around the morgue, eyes already wandering again, teeth digging into his swollen lip. ''No one. Will. Notice. And it's... very important.''

''Well, someone _did_ notice. That woman whose thumbs you took...'' She paused, then finally tore her eyes off the detective to regain her focus. ''They noticed. Her husband changed his mind and wanted to see her one last time... they had to make up some excuse.'' She stared at the body on the table, gathering as much determination as she could muster. ''I am sorry.''

''You...'' Sherlock's lips parted, and for a moment he just looked at her, utterly thunderstruck. John bit back a grin, satisfied to see the detective at a loss. ''You won't help me?''

''I can't.'' It sounded truly desperate. ''I am so sorry. I hope you don't think...''

''No,'' he muttered and turned away, reaching up to touch his temple as if to switch between his thoughts. ''No, that is...'' His brows knitted into a frown. ''But I need that skin.''

''I'm still surprised you never had the idea to acquire it yourself,'' John chipped in dryly, then cast a quick look to Molly to make sure she was alright. She looked lost and guilt-stricken – for _not_ mutilating her corpses. Whatever Sherlock had done to her to make her this starry-eyed, John really needed to find out a way to learn it as well. The man was a rude, thoughtless mess, there was no reason to be so... crazy for him.

Sure, he could be charming enough if he wanted to, his brilliant mind was more than fascinating and he was certainly good-looking, but his personality was so... odd it bordered on a miracle that she was still drooling over him. Sherlock was not a likable person, period. He was certainly good enough for John – more than good enough, really – but then again, he knew a side of Sherlock no one else knew. He knew how he liked his eggs, he knew that he had a blade hidden in the sleeve of his coat, he knew that he always slept on his side, legs pulled up so far it just couldn't be comfortable, and he knew the way he looked when he had just woken up and was hardly more than a yawning, stumbling, muttering mess. Molly didn't know any of that. She just saw the facade, the porcelain skin, the captivating eyes, the knowing smirk and the brilliant deductions, and that was nothing. That didn't even scratch the surface. She didn't even know who he was, and watching her stare at Sherlock with lovestruck naivete, oblivious to the man's disinterest in her advances, filled John's chest with a familiar mixture of pity, pride and satisfaction.

And maybe a hint of possessiveness.

''John, no jokes, this is serious,'' Sherlock murmured while staring at the dead man between them, thoughtfully tapping the angry red scrape on his chin. His frown deepened and he shortly looked up. ''It was a joke, wasn't it?''

''Oh my God.'' John rolled his eyes, his favorable contemplation quickly interrupted when Sherlock once again proved how much of an idiot he was. ''I'm getting coffee... anyone want some?''

''Two sugar,'' the detective let him know absentmindedly, and something in his eyes told John that he was having a moment again. He looked to Molly, but she shook her head, biting her lip and kneading her fingers while watching her crush get lost in the study of some dead man's skin as if it was screaming oaths of love at him, and so John pushed himself off the wall and fled the morgue.

It couldn't be sane, spending that much time around a raving madman, especially not when he was as erratic at Sherlock. One moment he had been lost in his mind, the next he had pranced around as wired and slaphappy as if Jack the Ripper had returned and written him a personal greeting card. Whatever had gotten into the man's mind now, John needed some coffee and fresh air, maybe a chat to someone not entirely crazy, before Sherlock dived head over heels into their next case. If it even was a case... something told him it wasn't. He had a feeling that Sherlock was carrying something in his head, something that hadn't been there before, and the thunderstruck look of amazement he had given him after returning from his mind palace... it didn't exactly serve to set John's nerves at ease. That look had given him chills and a racing heart at once, and he wasn't sure he wanted to find out what that meant.

By the time he returned to the morgue, catching a sharp glance from Molly for bringing coffee inside, the matter of ownerless skin tissue had apparently lost all significance. Sherlock was basically lying on the corpse, his nose just short of touching his navel, and his keen eyes slowly wandered over pale dead skin, looking for whatever clues he was hunting now. John shortly stopped and frowned at the view, then caught Molly's shrug and deemed it none of his business. He stepped up to the table and put down one of the cups. Sherlock hummed.

''…idiot.''

''What was that?'' John leaned a little closer. Sherlock's head turned, and his gleaming eyes bit into his.

''His wife is an idiot!'' he nearly shouted, and John jerked back and spilled some hot coffee on his hand.

''For Christ's sake, no need to yell at me!''

''Of course there is, you are not paying attention. Did you hear a single thing I said?'' His eyes narrowed, then he delved back down, hands hovering over the body, looking for... something. John licked his hand and scowled at him.

''I wasn't even here!''

''I thought... you were talking to me,'' Molly whispered with wide eyes, and Sherlock snorted and wiped a hand over his lip. It had broken open again, and his knuckles came away bloodied.

''If I were talking to you you'd know. Scalpel.''

''Sherlock, you will not dissect him!''

''Well, she hasn't done it yet!'' the detective snapped back, clearly enraged. ''Look at that, look at him, John!'' He pointed at the dead man. ''What does that look like to you?''

''Like someone who'd report you for harassment if he were still alive. Leave him alone.'' The doctor rolled his eyes, then cast another glance at the corpse, involuntarily feeling some interest arise. Sherlock's eyes lingered on him with palpable expectation, and finally he gave in with a sigh, put down his coffee and stepped closer. ''Might I have some gloves, please?''

''I...'' Molly swallowed, then he could see her shoulders slump. ''I'll get them.''

''Thank you.'' He shortly looked up. ''No offense, if I don't do it he'll get annoying.''

''I am never annoying, I just...''

''You are _always_ annoying!'' John declared and straightened to glower at his friend. ''Always. No exceptions. Now drink your coffee - and stop it with the damn Face, I can't stand it when you look at me like that. Turn away.'' He waved his hand, and Sherlock's eyes widened while his lips fell open. For a moment he looked utterly scandalized, but John had already turned around again. Molly handed him some gloves and he smiled at her. ''Sorry for the madness.''

''Oh, it's... okay. It _does_ get a little boring without visitors,'' she murmured, shortly looking to Sherlock, then returning her attention to the corpse, apparently deeming the man a lost cause. John had no idea what the detective had found that made him this wired so he just started with the head, carefully looking for evidence of... anything, really.

''What does the report say?''

''Drugs!'' Sherlock exclaimed. ''An accidental overdose, and would you believe it, they are wrong.''

''So we're talking murder or suicide.'' John felt for fractures in the skull, then carefully opened the man's lids to study the sclera. ''Good.'' He just couldn't bite it back.

''I didn't think...'' Molly began, but Sherlock was quick to interrupt her again, this time with an enervated groan.

''Nooo, of course you didn't. What's more, you didn't look! Use your eyes, it's obvious, he...''

''Sherlock.'' John cast his friend a glance and shook his head. Molly looked interested and close to tears at once.

The detective's brows rose in an unspoken question.

''Shut up.'' John held his stare for several seconds, and finally Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he turned away, leaving the doctor to continue his examination. He was no pathologist, but he knew that wasn't what the detective was asking of him. This was about something else. His eyes wandered over dead, anemic skin, his fingers tentatively prodded into cold flesh and tissue, his nose twitched when he tried to make out any unusual scents. Finally he straightened.

''Well?'' Molly's eyes were wide, shifting between him and the body. John pursed his lips.

''Constricted pupils.'' He slipped out of his gloves and reached for the coffee, well aware that Sherlock was staring at him from somewhere, but he didn't turn. ''Swollen joints and knuckles, discolored sclera, circumorbital rings, inflammated gums, etched enamel, unhealthy skin...'' He paused. ''That's it. The crook of his arms looks fine, some faded punctures, hardly visible, but...'' He took a few steps, lifted the cloth thrown over the body and wrapped to fingers in the latex glove to pry his toes apart, nodding to himself when he found what he had been looking for. ''He was hiding it. Heroin, most likely''

''Finally.'' From behind him Sherlock emitted a sigh. ''Someone call Lestrade.'' John turned to see a smug smirk on his friend's face. ''We'll take the case.''

''What case?'' Molly looked confused. ''He's just a junkie... I mean, it's horrible, but there's nothing unusual about it. Like you said...'' She looked at John. ''He's got all the symptoms, I can run some tests if you'd like, but that's it. Long-term drug abuse, overdosed in a back alley, it's absolutely...''

''Repeat that.'' Sherlock's head had snapped up at her words. The brunette's eyes widened.

''Uh... overdosed in a back alley?''

''John.'' The detective marched through the room, let his hands hover over the body again and stared at him like a child at a crate of chocolate. His eyes found John's. A happy smile appeared on his lips. '' _Murder_.''

''Oh, come on.'' John shook his head, then hesitated and looked at the dead man again. He frowned in resignation. ''Really?''

''Of course! It's all there, it's...'' Sherlock seemed unable to keep up with whatever wheels were spinning in his mind, and he fell silent, blinking rapidly while processing his thoughts. ''If we're lucky there might be more.''

''Oh, yes. That's what I was praying for every night. More dead people.'' John rolled his eyes, then caught the pathologist's incredulous scowl. ''I wasn't,'' he hurried to add, and her brow twitched, but she said nothing and turned back to Sherlock.

''Is there... anything I can do?'' she inquired carefully, back to smiling at him. It was wide and hopeful and desperate, and Sherlock ignored it completely. Instead he turned back to John.

''I need to speak to his wife... and we will visit that alley. Find me the reports of...'' He sucked in some air. ''The last three months. Everything that looks related.'' His lips twitched at the vague criterion, then he turned to Molly. ''Run whatever tests you have, run them twice if you have to, I need his blood levels, cause and time of death, any internal damage, prior medical records... shouldn't be too surprising, but we need to be sure.'' With that he jumped back from the corpse and clapped his hands. ''Murder! Finally!''

''It's been... a tough few weeks,'' John murmured when Molly frowned, and she obviously wanted to say something but quickly stopped herself. Sherlock grabbed his coffee and took two long swigs, causing John to wince. It was still far too hot, but the detective didn't seem to mind.

''Two cases in a mere few hours, this is our lucky day! Oh, and...'' He spun around to grin at Molly. ''Skin samples. No one will notice, not with _him_.'' He emptied his cup, slammed it down on the table and grabbed the gloves from John. Without much consideration he grabbed the dead man's shoulder and turned him to the side, studying his back. ''Yes, that will do. This part.'' He ran his fingers in a rectangle over his shoulder blades, down the side to his lower back, to the other side and then back up. ''All of it.''

''You want me to skin his entire back?'' Molly asked incredulously. Sherlock frowned.

''Of course.'' He blinked. ''Do you have any idea how many types of razors there are? His chest would do as well, if you like that better. Or his thighs...'' He lifted the cloth. ''No. Not hairy enough. Back and chest, if you would, I'll pick it up some time.'' He beamed at her.

John bit his lips, trying hard not to comment. There was no arguing with madness.

''Come on,'' Sherlock muttered after slapping the gloves back on the table and darting past him. ''We have a long day ahead... the game is _on_!''

''Thanks for your help,'' John said to Molly, who stared after the detective with a look one might cast after a tornado that had just leveled an entire neighborhood. ''It's not... well, he's been awfully tense these last few days, and...''

''John!'' Sherlock interrupted him from the door. ''She doesn't care, it doesn't matter, let's _go_!'' And then he was gone, his racing steps echoing in the hallway. John nodded and pursed his lips.

''Yeah. And just like that... we're back.'' He shook his head and padded towards the door, leaving a thunderstruck pathologist behind as she suspiciously eyed the unobtrusive body on her table that had caused the commotion in the first place. ''About time.''

When he stepped outside he couldn't quite suppress his smile.

 

 

''Would you care to explain what we're looking for?'' John asked and crossed his arms to shelter himself against the wind, but Sherlock didn't let on whether he had heard him, slowly walking down the alley with parted lips and furrowed brows, holding out for hints as to what had happened here.

Detective Inspector Lestrade had been equally surprised and suspicious when John had called him to talk about the 'case', but he had allowed them to pick up the reports, and that was all they had needed. Glenn Allister, forty-two, clerking at Tellson's Bank, married, no children. 107 Rasborough Road, hadn't returned to his wife on Friday, she had reported him missing on Saturday evening, a rough sleeper had found his body on Sunday afternoon, sprawled out in a rundown alley somewhere in Clerkenwell. Those were the facts. Now came the tricky part... figuring out the missing puzzle pieces. John sighed and looked back down at the report.

''Fine, keep me guessing,'' he murmured to himself. ''I love that. Really do.''

''Open your eyes,'' Sherlock muttered when he spun around on his heels and quickly paced back to where he had started. ''It's all there.''

''Alright then.'' John smacked his lips, let his eyes wander over the report and narrowed his eyes. ''Shall I try and amuse you, then?''

''Please do, and hurry.'' The detective had stopped abruptly and stared down at the place where Allister's body had been found, in the cover of an overflowing dumpster and some soaked carton boxes. The entire alley was filthy and neglected, there was graffiti on the grimy brick walls, glass shards, trash, decomposing papers and splintered woods littered the ground and the air was thick with the stench of exhaust fumes, garbage and rot. A soft rain was pattering from the clouded sky, the sounds of traffic wafted in from the surrounding streets and a harsh wind was coming up every now and then. It was far from pleasant, but Sherlock Holmes didn't seem to notice. He just stared at the spot, lips parted, thoughts whirling behind his radiant eyes, and John sighed and nodded.

''Fine. Let's see...'' He studied the notes. ''Nothing in his pockets but his wallet and his keys, and I was right about the heroin... definitely a long-time user, judging by his medical records.'' His brows furrowed while his eyes wandered on. Next to him Sherlock still frowned at the dumpster, shifting his head, then going into a crouch to study it from different angles. John shivered against the cold. ''Estimated time of death was somewhere in the night from Friday to Saturday... midnight, give or take two to three hours. But this is strange...'' He flipped the page and paused.

''What is?'' Sherlock asked without looking up. John shook his head.

''The contents of his stomach. Looks like... roast beef, hardly digested. He ate not too long before he died.''

''And that seems strange to you because...'' The detective's head bobbed up, and his eyes held a strange gleam. ''Impress me.''

''Well.'' John pondered for several seconds. ''In and of itself it is not too peculiar, but... heroin abuse often leads to nausea. Vomiting.'' He found his friend's eyes. ''Why eat such a filling meal when he was planning to mainline later? It's possible, but the state of his teeth... either he had a very bad hygiene, or it's a consequence of stomach acid repeatedly etching his enamel. No distinctive symptoms of alcohol abuse, and his bones and muscles seemed healthy enough, an eating disorder seems unlikely. Heroin had him vomiting, so the meal makes no sense... he didn't plan to get high that night.''

''John.'' Sherlock got up and pointed a gloved finger at his friend. ''You are making progress. It's still painfully slow and fragmentary, but in light of the fact that no one else noticed...'' He nodded. ''Well done.'' Then he turned around to kneel down next to the dumpster and cast a look underneath. John stared at him, utterly dumbfounded while a surge of heat rushed up his cheeks.

Had Sherlock just _praised_ him?

''Did you...'' he started, not too sure he had heard that right, but the detective snarled.

''What does it say about injecting equipment?''

''Injecting equipment, right.'' The doctor shook his head, trying his best to ignore the sudden pounding of his heart, and skimmed through the report once again. ''It, ah... it was all there. Needle, spoon, belt around his arm...''

''His own?''

''He didn't wear one. Most likely, yes.'' He swallowed and looked up. _Well done_. Just a verbal pat on the head, an incidental comment, nothing worth mentioning, and yet from Sherlock's ever disdainful lips it felt like... something. Something elevating, something he hadn't expected, and something he hadn't even known he needed... Jesus, how he had needed that.

''We'll need to check his clothes, this is pointless.'' Sherlock straightened and hunched up. ''Now the wife.''

''We done here?'' John looked around. He couldn't honestly claim that there was anything in this alley that caught his interest – apart from the grinning detective crawling around and sniffing like a dog, scowling when he didn't find what he was looking for, a sight so odd he was glad they were alone – but then again, he wasn't Sherlock Holmes - he was just John Watson. He was a doctor, a soldier, a friend and a fool, at least that was what he felt like right now. His cheeks were still burning.

_Well done._

''God damn it.'' He scowled and turned away to suck in some air and pull himself back together, very well aware that Sherlock would notice. He couldn't help it. He remembered mentioning it the night before, faintly and vague, remembered telling the man that he could do with some approval once in a while – but he hadn't expected him to actually pay it any heed. Hadn't expected him to act on it. Hadn't even expected him to _remember_ it.

His stomach dropped.

Did he remember _all_ of it?

''John.'' Sherlock stepped up to him while wiping his gloves clean, apparently oblivious to his inner turmoil. ''I need you to go to Scotland Yard for me and take a look at his belongings. Pictures, a reliable listing, all that. I'll go back to Bart's, maybe visit the wife as well. Something doesn't add up.''

''Sure,'' John muttered, eyes still fixed on some faraway point down the alley. His stomach felt like it was filled with lead, his temples were throbbing and his mouth was dry. He swallowed. What on Earth was _wrong_ with him?

After some time he realized that Sherlock was staring at him, his thoughts hidden behind that impregnable mask of his, and he immediately felt a twinge of guilt. That piercing look always made him feel like Sherlock could just see right into him, interpret every breath he took, every blink of his eyes, and read him like an open book. He couldn't, of course, most of the time he seemed to have no idea, not the faintest clue what was going on inside John's mind, but right now... right now his eyes were a little too narrow. His swollen lips a little too tight. His frown a little too deep.

He looked like he _knew_ , and John pursed his lips and nodded.

''Scotland Yard, right. Anything else?'' He closed the case file and raised his brows, feeling the sudden urge to wrap this up as quickly as possible. He couldn't stand this stare any longer, not now. Not like that.

Sherlock finally broke his gaze and looked up the alley.

''No.'' He strode off, hands in his pockets, dark coat flapping around his legs, his head so high and proud as if he was about to go to war. ''I'll see you at Baker Street.''

 


	5. SHERLOCK

Sherlock was thinking.

He had returned to Bart's, much to Molly's delight, and of course she had felt the need to behave peculiar again. She had shortly left after muttering some imbecile excuse, then returned far too quickly, smelling of a cheap, flowery perfume that mingled with the biting scent of death and disinfectants and had him left wondering what on Earth she was trying to achieve, and then she had hovered around him like she always did - as if that would help him in the slightest. Ignoring her had been the most feasible thing to do, even more so as she clearly had no idea what he was looking for, still believed the victim to be nothing more than an accident - a fix gone wrong, it was _ridiculous_ \- and reminded him once again why he usually preferred to take John with him. He was no great help when it came to puzzling the pieces together and his observational skills were... passable at best, but he knew when to shut up, and his presence helped. He distracted everyone who otherwise posed a distraction to Sherlock, he translated the gibberish of sentiment and sensitivity to him whenever the people he was forced to speak to once more ignored the possibility to simply _think_ , to focus on the bare essentials and not waste his time with chitchat and redundant stupidity, and he brought him coffee. Having John around was... easy.

He was by no means perfect, but he came closer than everyone else Sherlock had met so far, and when Molly had once again undressed him with her eyes, annoyed him with her childish infatuation and asked a dozen questions in _just the wrong way_ , he had felt a faint twitch that, after he had shortly tore his mind off his examination, had turned out to be... longing. Longing to have John by his side instead of her, longing for a silence rich with interest instead of ignorance, a silence he could fill and structure and _use_ , and a longing for the stepping stone questions the doctor usually posed, not imperatively necessary to solve the puzzles, but... helpful. Sometimes it was hard to keep track. Speaking to John helped with that, explaining, elucidating, seeing the gleam of fascination and amazement in his eyes... it helped.

Somewhere in the back of his skull he heard Mycroft laughing, and he shook his head to return to the matter at hand. The case. The riddle.

The game.

He had examined the body a second time and what he had found had been revealing, to say the least, although not too surprising. Then he had left again to seek out Mrs. Allister, and while she had been awfully dull and so horribly intent on sniffling into her handkerchief and boring him with her meaningless little anecdotes and playing her part in the primitive knockabout comedy that was human communication the visit had shed some more light on this new case of theirs. Now it was all neatly tucked away, stored in the vast expenses of his mind palace, waiting for a time and a place to be picked up again and filled into the gaps, to complete the picture and crack the case.

When he thought of that moment he could feel his breath hitch in his throat. That feeling was better than the first few second after a shot, was better than anything. Afterwards came the darkness, but in that moment... he sighed and let his head fall back. He was addicted to it, and this case would make it worth his while, he could _feel_ it. It was all there, so obvious, an intellectual Rubik's Cube, his to twist and turn and shift into the right position until the facts aligned and it all made sense. It was all there, and it was exactly what he needed. It was _perfect_.

He was lying on the sofa, eyes locked on the ceiling, half-closed and unseeing, his palms rested against each other, fingertips touching his chin, and he pulled his legs a little closer, easing into the familiar position he always held when skimming through the pieces and filling the gaps, setting the board for the game he was playing. It went smoothly, no hitches, no interruptions, the facts raced past his inner eye, the theories and possibilities weaved in an out and slowly settled down... and then something caught his attention and he stumbled. Hesitated. Turned back and examined. Marveled over something he hadn't noticed before, remembered feeling that same plucking at his synapses once before. A minor detail. A volatile impression. A passing unimportance... except that it wasn't. Not anymore. Not now.

Tellson's Bank.

His lips curved into a smile and he exhaled, ready to find out what it was about that name that had him stumbling like that.

Tellson's Bank. _Tellson's Bank_. The name rang a bell with him, somewhere deep inside, nearly buried underneath slathers of shreds and rags and fragmentary memories. It was a pile of chaos, and he braced himself before delving in, fishing for whatever it was about that name that had his train of thoughts derail like that. Slowly, gradually something appeared before his inner eye... a crest. An ornate letterhead, something he had seen before... he pressed his lips together, tried to remember the what and the where, but it was all... wrong. Slippery. Hazy. Upside down? Where had he seen it? While his eyes narrowed even further as he darted through the faraway corners of his mind, ripped open doors and drawers, rummaged through crates and boxes, nearly lost himself in a whirl of fluttering memories as he tried to find the one, the _right_ one, the one that had his mind stumble with recognition. His eyes were glazed and his lips slightly parted, and even through the tight focus of his searching mind he could feel his breathing calm and his muscles relax, could feel himself sink deeper and deeper while his inner sight grew clouded and tense. It was utter chaos, a drift of images... his eyes closed. Everything seemed to disappear, seemed to fade away until it was only him and the disarray of his memories, shambolic, yet crystalline and brilliant... he could feel it, it was there, it was close, it was...

There. Without a warning it appeared, as clear and lucid as if he was holding it in his hands, the piece of memory he had been looking for. He had found it, and now he turned it around. Stared at it. Gave it a name, a time. A scent, a sound. Put it into place. Something shifted.

His eyes opened.

Now if _that_ wasn't a surprise.

 

 

''...but why didn't he go home? Did he have other plans? Not initially, he would have told his wife... but she didn't mention it. I _asked_. He had no plans, but he didn't return that night and someone must have known she wouldn't bother to call the police, must have relied on the fact that she wouldn't be curious... no.'' He blinked. ''No, that's wrong. It doesn't matter. It didn't _ever_ matter, there is nothing to gain by waiting... he didn't hide the body. He killed him that very night, he didn't need to rely on her. He didn't... care?'' He stopped his pacing, stared at the ground. ''Does that make sense? It has to, why would she lie... _did_ she lie? Why did she cry then? Why did she... _ah_!'' Sherlock exhaled and turned away, tousled his locks, shook his head and bit back a groan.

This was pointless, muttering to himself like an idiot, getting lost in the maze of thoughts and facts and fragments... he needed an audience. He needed someone... someone to listen. Someone to structure the chaos, someone to trail his thoughts and follow without stumbling, someone... his eyes shortly lingered on the skull on top of the fireplace, darted away again, then shot upwards, to the ceiling, and twenty seconds later he barged into John's room, startling his friend enough to send him leaping off his bed when his military reflexes kicked in. The doctor cursed and narrowly managed to keep his laptop from tumbling to the ground, then spun around to glare at him.

''Bloody hell, can't you knock?''

''Come down, now. You need to listen.'' Sherlock felt out of breath, but it wasn't physical. It was mental, the strain of too many facts and not enough insight, not enough structure... he had to hurry. Had to put it all into place before it became chaotic again, and the rhythmic throbbing of his split lip rang in his head like the merciless ticking of a clock while the dull burning of his scraped chin only added to his enervation... there was no time.

''Listen?'' John asked incredulously. ''To what?''

''To me.'' Sherlock's eyes narrowed as his eyes shot through the room. Nothing. The bed was made, no clothes lying around, and there was nothing on John's face but surprise and confusion, that far too familiar lack of comprehension, and while his friend carefully placed the laptop back on the bed Sherlock could see the screen, the page of his blog – so he had been blogging... no, reading, _re-reading_ their cases. _Now_ , of all times, while _he_ was going bloody mental over this stupid case – what was he _thinking_?!

 _Was_ he thinking?

Of course not. He knew their cases, knew them by heart like Sherlock did, rather impressive in light of his ordinary memory, he knew them all, no need to rely on the blog to recall the facts – so it was sentiment, a stroll through the past, _their_ past, to pass the time and quench the boredom... he was bored. He was _bored_. Why was he up here instead of _listening_ to him then?!

Sherlock blinked and caught John's blank stare, cleared his throat.

''I can't think, John, I need you to listen. Now.''

''You... need me to listen,'' John echoed painfully slowly as if Sherlock hadn't just said that exact same thing, what was _wrong_ with that guy why was he playing the fool and boring himself when _there was a case to solve_ _ **why**_ _didn't he just come_ _ **DOWN**_ _?!_ , then shook his head. ''What did you even do before me, hm?''

''Talked to the skull.'' Sherlock licked his lips and stared at him, waited while John made up his mind, fidgeted with tormenting restlessness while John just _looked_ at him... bastard.

''Oh, and he's... what? Out on a date? Not in the mood?'' The doctor smirked. _Smirked_. Sherlock wanted to strangle him. What was so difficult about just coming along to listen?!

''John, I need you to come down. _Now_ ,'' Sherlock repeated once again, hearing the far too pleading tone in his voice while he stared at his friend, tried to hold on to the mess of scraps and flutters in his mind, tried not to lose his focus while John took his sweet damn time _waiting_. Why was he waiting, what was he waiting for? Why didn't he just come? He _always_ came when Sherlock called for him, _always_ listened, _always_ wanted to help, but not _now_. He just... looked. Stared at him, painfully calm, still with that stupid smile, waiting. _What was he waiting for?_ The detective raced through his mind, tried to find out what it was while his grasp threatened to slip, while all the clues slowly turned back into an unfathomable mess, and his inner agitation broke through and had him bare his teeth in frustration while he tried to find out what John was waiting for. Something petty, most likely, something unimportant and superfluous, something Sherlock wouldn't see, something... his eyes widened. Something sentimental and pointless.

He raised his chin and glared at John.

'' _Please_.''

''Alright,'' John said with a nod and walked around the bed, past Sherlock, as if that one _stupid_ little word had settled the matter. The detective stared after him, too amazed for words, then forced himself out of his stupor and followed him down the stairs.

Why did he always have to make everything so complicated?

''So,'' John said when Sherlock hurried into the parlor. He had already sat down on the table, arms propped on the top, and studied him with some kind of smile. ''You'll finally let me in?''

''Let you in?'' Sherlock stopped in the middle of the room with a frown. ''In on what?''

''In on our case,'' John said slowly and raised his brows. ''I have no bloody clue what happened. Let me in. Break it down for me.''

''You don't...'' Sherlock began, then trailed off when realization struck. He blinked. ''What are you talking about? It's all there, it's... the one piece that's missing, I found it, the rest was obvious to begin with!''

''Don't.'' John leaned back and raised a finger in warning. ''The Face. Don't do that.''

''I didn't...''

''You did. You're doing it right now. Stop it.''

''You're childish, John,'' Sherlock snarled and glanced into the mirror above the fireplace, holding out for whatever his friend referred to as the Face, finding nothing but his own restless eyes staring back at him. ''I am looking absolutely...''

''Smug. Arrogant. Amazed that anyone could not be as clever as you and conjure a case out of a junkie and too much time on their hands. Now get started, Sherlock, I want to know what's happening.'' In contrast to his words John seemed amused, and that puzzled Sherlock. Why was he so hard to read? Why was he... ah. Didn't matter. He shook the puzzle out of his head and returned to the matter at hand. The dead junkie. The murder victim. Tellson's.

''Ready?'' Already he felt better. Calmer. John was no genius, but he was sharp and attentive, and he would remember everything of importance, so he could just... let go. Ramble on. Let John pick up whatever was needed to explain it all to the lesser minds once they were through with this. Sherlock relaxed and took a deep breath, and John's hazel eyes narrowed while he gathered his focus before he nodded.

''Shoot.''

''Glenn Allister.'' The detective pinched the bridge of his nose and let the facts rain down, relieved that he finally had the audience he needed. ''He worked at a bank for nearly twenty-two years and lived in the same house for thirteen, no children, married young and stayed with his wife until now. Reliable, steady, the kind of guy to develop a routine and stick to it. Assessable. Easy to predict.'' He looked at John, saw him nod. _Good_. The detective spun around, started pacing, fell into a rhythm. It was so easy, so simple now that John's eyes rested on him, everything just fell into place and made _sense_... Sherlock smiled, excitement gleaming in his eyes.

''Definitely a heroin addict. Faded punctures in the crook of his arm, more recent ones between his toes. Swollen joints, a likely sign for kidney failure, a chronic disease that takes time to develop, indicating a year-long addiction. Etched teeth, not because he didn't take care of his hygiene but because he got nauseous and vomited when he was high, along with inflammated gums, unhealthy skin, rings under his eyes – telltale signs of a junkie, but apart from that he kept it in check, manicured nails, neatly groomed, he had a hold on it. Managed his work, his marriage, his appearance, let no one know about it, not even his wife, and spun some tale about how he quit to keep her in the dark – probably the reason he changed from the crook of his arm to the space between his toes, to hide the fact that he was still doing it.'' He stopped and cast a glance to his friend, waiting for the sign to continue.

''Sounds right so far.'' John had leaned back as he watched him spread out the facts, the familiar look of genuine interest and critical attention on his face. Sherlock nodded, eager to continue.

''It does, it _is_ , but why didn't his wife report him when he didn't come home? Why did she wait so long, an entire day? I asked, she made up some excuse, but her fidgeting, the shifting of her eyes, that line around her lips...'' He remembered it all too well. ''She thought he had an affair, John, _that's_ why. _She_ thought he was with his lover and didn't want me to know – trying to hide it was pointless and obstructive, really, but that's of no importance, what _is_ important is that she didn't call the police because she expected him to come home again, like he _always_ did – but not _this_ time, because _this_ time he was dead!''

''So the lover killed him?'' John asked, and Sherlock, once again pacing, nearly ran into the coffee table.

''No!'' he snapped and rolled his eyes, ''of course not – there _is_ no lover! Why would you even think that?''

''But...'' The doctor's eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head, something gleaming in his eyes. ''There was no ring. Not on his finger and not among his belongings.''

''True.'' Sherlock sniffed. ''Because it was taken from him.''

''Why would anyone take the ring?''

''To make it look like the lover did it.''

''But you just said...''

''There is no lover, yes, but _she_ didn't know that, and neither did the police – after a while she would have told them that she had suspected him of having an affair, and then they would come to the conclusion, the _wrong_ conclusion, that Allister secretly met someone, they shot heroin, he overdosed, the mysterious lover panicked and left him behind, case solved. And all those idiots would feel like geniuses because they'd think the _affair_ was the secret, the catch about this case, but there _is_ no lover, there probably never was one!'' He huffed and shook his head. ''It's a magic trick, John, a double bottom, a red herring, a false trace!''

John stared at him. Sherlock could see his thoughts whirl behind his eyes, could see the case take form, could see the facts seep in, and finally John ran a hand through his short blond hair and nodded.

''I... think I follow. But how do _you_ know there is no lover?''

''Because he didn't plan to stay out that night. Think about it, John, he could have just told her that he was meeting some colleagues for dinner, that he was going to the pub, maybe he would have gone back home to take a shower, change his clothes... but he didn't.'' Sherlock felt like a huge weight had been taken from him, and finally he allowed himself to drop down in his chair. ''And while I was at Bart's I measured the punctures. All of them stem from needles with a gauge of half a millimeter, all but one. The fresh puncture in his arm is nearly a millimeter wide... twice the width. Why the mismatch? Because it wasn't one of his, because someone else gave him that shot, and I doubt it was part of some sexual... thing. This murder, this alleged overdose... it's good, but not perfect. It could have worked. It _would_ have worked...''

''If not for you.'' It sounded absentminded, an incidental comment, but when Sherlock looked up he could see John smiling at him, and involuntarily he had to smile back. Exhausted. Tired. Relieved. He let his head drop against the back rest and closed his eyes, still smirking. So easy. So clear, all of it, like a map in his head, and all it had taken to bring some order into the chaos, to put some structure into his mind, to let the pressure flow freely and let go of his racing thoughts... was John. Watching. Listening. Being there.

It made no sense, but that was okay. For once, for now it didn't have to.

After several minutes in silence he opened his eyes again and noticed that John was still studying him, quickly looking away when Sherlock saw it. Whatever he had been thinking about, it definitely wasn't the case. The detective frowned.

As of late his friend made no sense.

''Mrs. Hudson!'' he then called, loud enough to have John flinch. ''Might we have some tea, please?''

''Tea?'' John scowled and looked at the clock. ''It's nearly dinner time. Which reminds me, when did you last eat?''

''I don't know. Doesn't matter.''

''Why tea, then? You...''

''We will have a visitor.'' Sherlock shook his head. A blurry edge had crept into his vision, and now that John mentioned food he noticed a hollow aching in his stomach. Maybe he should eat. And sleep. He knew he was supposed to, _had_ to if he wanted to solve this case, but it seemed so... useless. A waste of time, time he could put to better use than just lying around for hours on end. He bared his teeth and got up, oblivious to John's puzzled look.

''A visitor?''

''Yes. I am surprised he isn't here yet.'' Sherlock stepped to the window and glanced outside. Nothing. Then he heard Mrs. Hudson on the stairs, taking only the first three steps before calling up to them.

''For the last time, Sherlock, I am _not_ your housekeeper!''

''Three cups please!'' he yelled back, then sighed and started pacing again while she muttered something in return and scurried into the kitchen to fulfill his request. Waiting was _tedious_.

John still watched him, chin propped on his palm, and when Sherlock cast a furtive glance at his friend he saw that strange expression again. Not the sharp interest the soldier usually displayed when pondering a case... it was something else. Something personal.

He quickly looked away. Whatever it was, he couldn't be distracted. Not now. He would ponder the doctor once this case was solved... which reminded him that there still was a lie to uncover, _John's lie_. The last night seemed an eternity ago, but when he thought of it now all the details slammed back into his head as if they had only been waiting for the chance, hard enough to knock out the case and the clues and everything that had kept his mind spinning for the last few hours... leaving him with the same confusion he had felt that morning. The confusion that had returned when they had investigated the alley, after he had praised John's deduction. The confusion at John's reaction to the compliment, the amazed, puzzled, shocked look on his face that had made absolutely no sense.

He had no idea what it meant. It had only been an acknowledgment of his prowess after all, an approving nod, an empty phrase... John knew that Sherlock valued him. Of course he knew, he was the only person whose presence he could stand while pondering, the only one he trusted to do what he wanted, when he wanted it and in the exact way he wanted it. The only one he had let into his life and allowed to stay... and the only one who had _wanted_ to stay. John knew. He _had_ to know.

But he hadn't.

Sherlock slowed down, finally came to a stop in his pacing and frowned. Could John really be this stupid? Did he think Sherlock would keep him around if not for reasons, _good_ reasons, that showed exactly how much he valued his opinion? His insight, his perspective... his company? Or was this about something else entirely and he was simply missing the point?

He had no idea, and it was frustrating him to no end. Now that the memories of the night before had once more seeped into his mind and tormented him with whatever it was that he couldn't recall, whatever they had talked about in that taxi, whatever John had lied about in the morning... he couldn't shake it off. It gnawed at him, teased him, vexed him, and when he finally heard the sound of a halting car on the street below and saw their expected visitor get out and step on the sidewalk he had to contain himself to not groan in enervation. He had to shut it out, _now_ , had to focus and make sure he didn't let his puzzlement show... his utter loss at John and his secrets. Why did he even _have_ secrets?

It was a pain.

''That's Mycroft.'' John sounded surprised. He had gotten up and stepped to a window as well, and when Sherlock's brother walked away from the car and rang the bell he cast a confused glance to Sherlock. ''Did you invite him?''

''I wouldn't dream of it.'' Sherlock absentmindedly ran a hand through his hair, tucked at the collar of his shirt, ran a tentative finger over his scraped chin, then caught John's stare. ''What?''

''Did he tell you he'd come?''

''Don't be ridiculous.'' The detective listened to the sound of Mrs. Hudson opening the door, to the sound of his brother's footsteps on the stairs, and braced himself for whatever would happen next. Forced himself to focus on the case at hand. John and his secrets had to wait.

''Mycroft.'' John sounded cool, but polite when their visitor finally reached the landing and strolled inside the room, and Sherlock could _feel_ the short, appraising glance that grazed his back before his brother answered.

''John.'' The false joviality in Mycroft's voice had the detective roll his eyes, and only then he turned, ready to face him and eager to get this over with. His brother smiled, the way he always did when he senses an opportunity to annoy him, and while John's eyes wandered between them, wary apprehension mixed with curiosity far too visible on his face, Mycroft's smile widened into something close to arrogance and he took some more steps to position himself in the middle of the room while casting seemingly interested glances around. It was sickening.

Finally his eyes returned to meet Sherlock's.

''Why am I not surprised that you took the case?'' It sounded challenging and amused at once. Sherlock's face hardened.

''Because you like to entertain the illusion that nothing ever surprises you, Mycroft, which is as pathetic as it is in vain. Why am _I_ not surprised to see that you come here only _after_ I took it?'' he asked in return, and his brother rolled his eyes and sighed as if he had expected the question.

''You are very well aware that I couldn't come earlier.''

''No – because until now you didn't even know about it. You had _no_ idea, and now that you do...''

''I had a suspicion.''

''You had nothing. If you really think that you can just come here and-''

''Sorry to disturb you, but would _anyone_ care to tell me what the hell you two are talking about?'' John chipped in, his confusion more than obvious, and interrupted Sherlock before he could let his strained temper get the better of him. Sherlock paused for a heartbeat, realizing that John still had no idea what was going on. He had entirely forgotten to tell him... or maybe he had deliberately made himself forget.

Before he could make up his mind, begin to explain, let John in on his latest discovery, Mycroft had turned his head to stare at the doctor, seemingly surprised at the interruption, and the look he gave him... it sent a chill down Sherlock's neck. He had seen that look far too often, had felt it linger on him his entire life, judging him, measuring him, condemning him, and he would _not_ have it rest on John. Everyone, but not John.

Before he knew it he had stepped forward, shoved himself between his brother and his friend, and only when Mycroft took an involuntary step back and Sherlock felt a wave of icy rage well up inside him, paired with something else he couldn't quite identify, he realized that he had moved at all. He froze, eyes locked with Mycroft's, and for a heartbeat he saw something in his brother's face that he had never seen there before.

Amazement.

''Hello? Earth to Holmes, either of you? Anyone there?'' John's voice seemed to come from far away, nearly lost in the intensity of the brothers' silent standoff... and then it was over. The moment ended as quickly as it had come and Mycroft smiled.

''Well, well... who would have thought.'' The whisper was silent, only meant for Sherlock's ears, and then his brother smoothly stepped away and grazed John with another glance. It was different this time, curious and thoughtful, gone in the blink of an eye, and Sherlock turned away from both of them, not sure what had just happened. Not sure what had made him lose his composure. Not sure what any of it meant. Then he looked up to meet his brother's calm, unreadable stare and forced himself to smile, to shove it all away and focus on the case. To ignore the sudden pounding of his heart and slip back behind his mask. His next words were as composed as if none it had ever happened.

''What do you know about Tellson's?''

 


	6. JOHN

There was something about the way Mycroft looked at him that had made John's skin crawl.  
  
Not the first glance, the mixture of arrogance and disinterest that usually lingered in the man's eyes and that John had long learned to recognize and ignore. No, that hadn't bothered him in the slightest, especially as Sherlock's unexpected interruption had cut it blissfully short. Whatever had caused it, John didn't want to know – Sherlock was his friend and they were in this as a team, but there was a certain difference between tackling blood-thirsty assassins to try and protect his partner's life on the one hand and speaking up against his brother on the other. If left with a choice, John would always go for the assassins.

But Mycroft's second glare... that had been different. He had never seen the man look at him with anything but boredom, smugness or irritation, and to see _nothing_ of that now, with Sherlock visibly upset... no, thank you. John's jaw hardened and he sank back down into his arm chair, relieved when Mycroft's eyes started wandering again and Sherlock finally turned, apparently ready to continue their little battle of wits.

''What do you know about Tellson's?''

''Tellson's?'' Mycroft, who had taken up strolling through the room once more, stopped next to the window and cast an amused glance over his shoulder. ''The bank?''

''Oh, please.'' Sherlock's shoulders were tense, and from his seat in the arm chair John could see that the detective's fingers were entwined behind his back, tightly enough to turn his knuckles pale. The doctor frowned, slightly confused at the odd choice of topics.

What on Earth did Tellson's have to do with it? Apparently Sherlock had once again skipped a few steps in the investigation without letting him in... wonderful. He sighed and leaned back, wondering whether anyone would bother to explain things to him or whether he should just let them engage in that stupid little feud of theirs and wait for his friend to remember him. One Holmes was bad enough, but both at once? He might as well have turned invisible for all the impact he would have on this conversation.

''He wasn't the first one, was he?'' Sherlock continued when Mycroft didn't answer. ''How many, Mycroft? Two? Three? What were they working on? And stop trying to turn this into one of your games, you gave yourself away the moment you rang our bell.''

 _Our_ bell. At least he hadn't forgotten that there was someone else involved as well, assuming he didn't mean Mrs. Hudson. John closed his eyes and settled for waiting.

Mycroft hummed.

''You know, trying to not be an insufferable man-child with no manners whatsoever for _once_ in your life wouldn't hurt half as much as you make yourself believe. You should try it some time... and Allister was the second.'' That was surprisingly straightforward. The doctor opened his eyes again, saw the man shrug in false regret. ''The first one died in a car crash, and what a _tragic_ accident it was... we would have never guessed that he-''

''Was a junkie? Let me guess... heroin. And of course the car burnt out and that was all you could find out.'' The detective didn't bother to wait for his brothers confirmation. A smug look had slipped on his face, but there was no joy in it – just grim triumph. ''You had _no_ idea.''

''Oh, please.'' Mycroft looked bored. ''I can't keep an eye on all of them. Besides, it was quite well executed, I daresay that not even _you_ would have found reason to suspect foul play.'' The sarcasm was unmistakable.

''You. Didn't. Know.''

''Yes, yes, and neither did you – will you rub this in forever? Gathering anecdotes for Christmas already? Fine... what was it I read about that...'' His sharp eyes darted to John. '' _Invisible Man_? Such an entertaining case, I am sure mummy would _love_ to hear about it, what a shame you never solved it. Maybe _I_ can be of assistance?'' His tone was innocent enough, but when Sherlock's face hardened John felt a twinge of guilt. The detective frowned at him.

''You _wrot_ e about that case?''

''Yes.'' No sense in lying, not with both Holmes brothers staring at him like that. He swallowed and folded his hands over his knee. ''And no, I will not take it down.''

''How endearing.'' Mycroft smiled and looked to his brother. ''He wants to make you appear human, Sherlock, isn't that lovely? Best of luck, John, although I fear your attempts might be... in vain.''

''Enough of this, I don't have all night,'' Sherlock snarled silently and turned his back to John, clearly upset. The doctor rolled his eyes and reached for a magazine on the end table, not in the mood to let himself be dragged into their banter, and Mycroft sighed as if all of this was turning out rather tedious.

''I cannot help but marvel at your patience... you have my sympathy.''

''I'm fine... just carry on before he starts throwing things,'' John murmured without looking up and dismissively waved his hand to indicate his disinterest. Even with his eyes on some article about a recent spike in pocket thefts he could feel Mycroft's smile.

''Impressive. Now, Sherlock, if I agree to share some rather... restricted information with you, will you promise to try and not stumble right into the line of possible fire? You cannot imagine the concern you cause me, setting my mind at ease would...''

''Stop lying, Mycroft, it bores me.'' Sherlock sounded impatient, and again his brother huffed.

''Oh, my... as you wish. Although I can assure you that my concern is genuine, but of course you wouldn't know.'' His fingers shortly drummed on the desk. ''Now, these men... they weren't involved in matters of importance, nothing of interest. It's a real mystery why _anyone_ would target _them_ of all people.'' His tone made it clear that he thought himself two steps ahead of his brother. ''Especially in light of the fact that neither of them was actually doing anything substantial... front men, you see. Errand boys, hardly worth the effort of killing them in such an elaborate manner.'' John looked up just in time to see Sherlock turn back around, eyes dark as he processed his brother's words. Mycroft watched with open amusement.

The doctor licked his lips and tried to make any sense of it. Up until now he hadn't even thought of Allister's job as a possible motive, had suspected a drug deal gone wrong, a disagreement over money, an old rival, anything that would warrant killing him with the drug of his choice and not even taking his wallet... it clearly hadn't been about money. It had been about sending a message.

But maybe... may that message had been meant for someone who was still alive? Maybe it had been meant for Mycroft – or whoever else was involved. Even after a year of knowing the brothers John still had no idea what it was that Mycroft did, and if he was honest with himself he didn't want to find out. The risk of simply... disappearing was considerably higher than the worth of finding out what the man actually did, and he was rather attached to his life.

Still, now that he viewed it from a different angle... he frowned, magazine slowly sinking down on his lap while he tried to recall the facts on the case. Finally he realized that, as long as Sherlock was too occupied with glaring at Mycroft to shed some light, he still had absolutely no idea what was going on. Mycroft on the other hand smiled like the cat that got the cream, clearly enjoying himself.

Bastard.

''New pillow?'' he finally asked out of the blue, eyes still locked on his brother, studying the scrape on his chin and the slightly swollen cut in his lip. ''You should use it more often, you know, and maybe buy another one for the floor.'' His voice went down to a hush, loud enough that John could still hear him and full of false concern. ''I seem to recall that it's been a long time since you needed one. Is it still still that dream about-''

''Shut up!'' Sherlock barked as his brother's words jerked him out of his concentrated pondering, and he bared his teeth in enervation. ''Shut. Up. This might be a game for you, but...''

''A _game_? Oh, no.'' Mycroft shook his head and chirruped reproachfully. ''Two men died, Sherlock, rest assured that I treat the matter with all appropriate seriousness. You, on the other hand... you used to have that same look as a child, when you tried to solve a crossword and got stuck... again.'' His eyes darted to John. ''It was adorable, especially as long as he could hardly read. You should have seen him.''

''What have I ever done to you? Shut. _Up_!'' Sherlock hissed, his frustration more than obvious. He had started pacing again, clearly irritated by his brother's cheerful prattling, and by now the amusement in Mycroft's eyes seemed genuine, a seldom sight. John watched with a frown, not too sure whether he should intervene. It felt wrong to just sit and watch while Mycroft drove Sherlock towards a mental breakdown... but then again, what could _he_ possibly do?

Apart from decking him and throwing him out of the window, but somehow that hardly sounded like a feasible solution.

''Speaking of games, why not play one,'' Mycroft muttered seemingly to himself as if they had nothing better to do. ''Ah, yes... _mischief_. Sherly, your turn.''

''What?'' John stuttered and blinked in puzzlement. A game, now? And _Sherly_? _**Really**_?

In sharp contrast to his obvious confusion, Sherlock's head bobbed up and his pacing stopped. His eyes were wide, then quickly narrowed again while a mask of cautious composure slipped on his face. The brothers stared at each other.

''Mayhem.'' Sherlock's voice was cold, but there was something... John frowned. He seemed to know what this was about. Mycroft nodded in approval.

''Somewhat obvious, but I'll let it count. Ah... _murder_.'' His smile widened as he looked to John. ''Care to join in? No,'' he quickly said when Sherlock meant to say something, ''let him play. After all he is... part of the family now, isn't he? Please, John, do us the honor.''

What the hell... the doctor blinked while both Holmes brothers stared at him, Mycroft with sickening amusement, Sherlock with barely contained impatience. They were clearly expecting him to play along, but what was he even supposed to do? Somehow he had a feeling that Mycroft wouldn't explain the rules to him, and if Sherlock was forced to say another word he would probably explode, but it seemed important to him. It seemed to matter. The doctor sighed and gave in, realizing his only way out would be to get up and leave... and he didn't even want to think about what Sherlock would say to that. A game it was, then.  
Mischief. Mayhem. Murder. Mischief, mayhem, murder... he really could have used a hint. Finally, after what felt like an eternity but had probably one been a mere few seconds, he licked his lips and swallowed.

''Mystery?'' he tried tentatively, eyes locked on Sherlock, and to his relief the detective nodded and relaxed a little. Mycroft laughed.

''Wonderful!'' he exclaimed as if he hadn't had this much fun in years, ''quite nice indeed. Let me see... _malevolence_! Sherly?'' He turned back to his brother, still in high spirits and not even trying to hide how much he enjoyed having them in his hand, but was only met by an icy, triumphant glare.

'' _Moriarty_!'' Sherlock hissed, and without a word of warning he spun around and darted towards his room, both his brother and his friend forgotten in a heartbeat. Mycroft allowed himself a smug smile and exchanged glances with John.

''Typical. Always lost his interest halfway through, it's just no fun with him.''

''I...'' John hesitated, then fell silent. He wasn't entirely sure what he had just witnessed, but apparently both Holmes and Holmes had said their part. Mycroft waited for the door to Sherlock's room to fall shut, then nodded and indicated a slight bow towards John.

''Always a pleasure. Make sure he eats, please, and keep your gun at the ready, I fear you might need it.'' He turned to leave, but stopped as if he had just remembered something and looked over his shoulder at the dumbfounded doctor. ''Oh, and you might want to talk to him about last night.'' With a wink and a merry whistle on his lips he strolled out of the parlor, just in time to meet Mrs. Hudson on the stairs.

''Terribly sorry, but I am afraid I have to leave already... have a good evening.'' A few seconds later the door to the street fell shut, a car engine started and then he was gone, just like that. John still stared at the door to the stairs, not entirely sure how to react, and only when Mrs. Hudson let out a sigh and placed a tray with tea before him he blinked and returned to the here and now. The landlady gave him a disapproving glance.

''You shouldn't let them tease each other like that, you know. Poor Sherlock... you really ought to talk to him.'' Her eyes shortly lingered on the closed door on the other end of the flat, leading to the detective's room, and John nodded weakly.

''I... I will.'' Damn Mycroft. How could _he_ know about their previous night?

''Good. Something that always helped my husband when he was upset was a nice warm bath and foot massage, maybe you'll try that and see...''

''Mrs. Hudson.'' John forced himself not to lash out. ''For the last time, he's _not_ my boyfriend. I will not... I will not massage his feet. Or anything else, just so we're clear.''

''Oh, dear...'' She rolled her eyes. ''I really don't see why you make such a big deal of it. As long as you are both happy...''

''I am _not_. Happy.'' He glared at her. ''I am surrounded by... _maniacs_ , I don't understand a word they're saying, I am knee-deep in some murder mystery, I am tired and hungry and enervated and I could _really_ do without that whole boyfriend routine right now, thank you very much.''

''No need to be rude,'' she chirped reproachfully and straightened. ''That's the last time I bring you tea, just so you know it... I am _no_ t your housekeeper, make it yourself.'' She straightened and turned to leave. ''And now go and calm him down, I'll bring you some sandwiches, and he better eat them. He's getting far too thin... it's a mystery to me how you can't be worried.''

''I. Am. Worried,'' he murmured through clenched teeth once she was out of earshot, then buried his face in his hands. First some illusive dead junkie in an alley, then Mycroft and his enervating little games, now Mrs. Hudson with the whole boyfriend shenanigan again and above it all the matter of the previous night, still unresolved and apparently more important than he had assumed if even Mycroft had caught up on it – after _five bloody minutes_. How could that smug bastard even _know_ about it? Even _he_ had nearly forgotten about it, courtesy of the mess of facts clogging his mind. And he still had no idea what had really happened to Glenn Allister.

It was a pain.

John sighed and helped himself to a cup of tea, then leaned back in his chair and decided to take some time before going after Sherlock. He couldn't just stumble in and let him ramble over whatever it was with this case and Moriarty – the name rang a bell, but he couldn't quite determine where he had heard it before. What he needed was an idea, a general notion of _what the hell_ was going on, and he wouldn't get it if he didn't shut out half the chaos in his mind and focused on the case.

Glenn Allister. John sipped his tea and forced himself to ponder the man, narrow his focus. _Concentrate_. Married, junkie, worked for Tellson's. And Tellson's had something to do with Mycroft, he had been able to gather that much, although he was at an utter loss as to how Sherlock had found out about it. That and Allister's role in all this were definitely questions he had to pose if he wanted to understand what was going on.

The strange circumstances of the man's death weren't all that mysterious anymore – maybe he had been kidnapped, maybe he had made the spontaneous decision to spend the night out, either way someone had gotten a hold of him and then killed him with heroin, case solved. But... why heroin? Why not just shoot him, drown him, beat him to death with a stuffed teddy bear, why such a specific kind of death? Mycroft had mentioned another victim, a drug-induced car crash... the heroin seemed to play a central role in this.

Maybe _that_ was the message.

Maybe Mycroft and his... organization – whichever one it was – were hunting down a drug cartel? Not exactly what John would have suspected, but in light of the facts it seemed logical. Killing off the ones responsible for the operation, killing them with _drugs_ , to make sure everyone involved knew what this was about... yes, that sounded like a possible scenario. He'd have to ask Sherlock about that one as well. _He_ had immediately suspected heroin, so he seemed to know.

Of course he did. The bastard always knew everything.

John was quite aware that he himself wasn't exactly stupid, he was a doctor after all, but Sherlock usually managed to make him feel like an idiot, especially when he put on the bloody Face, and combined with his Mycroft's equally brilliant, although notably more derogatory intellect the impression of being mentally inadequate quickly grew outright unbearable. He clenched his teeth and took another sip. Maybe having a sister like Harry wasn't that bad after all... at least not _now_ , when he knew what kind of siblings one could have as an alternative. He'd choose her before Mycroft any time.

His thoughts returned to the case. What else? The question of how the murderer – the murderers? - had been able to drug Allister against his will? It didn't seem to important, but maybe it was. You never knew, so he added it to his mental list. But why the back alley – to line up with the first impression of a mere golden shot? Made sense to him. He discarded it.

How had Sherlock known Mycroft would visit them? Easy. He knew his brother well enough to have a vague idea of the time it would take him to hear about the detective's new case. He'd make the connection, put one and one together, and then he'd already be on his way to Baker Street – to _meddle_ , like he always did. John smirked. It wasn't the most brilliant deduction, but he doubted that he would been able to puzzle it out a year ago. Back then he would have simply assumed that Sherlock had secretly invited the man.

Which was ridiculous. He'd never invite Mycroft anywhere.

When he heard Mrs. Hudson's steps on the stairs he took a deep breath and emptied his cup. Time to seek out Sherlock. Time to remind him that they were in this together. And time to find out what 'Moriarty' meant, because the gleam in Sherlock's eyes when he had muttered that name had looked far too thrilled to _not_ mean trouble.

''You are still here?'' he heard the landlady ask as she entered the kitchen, and when he turned his head he could see her carry a tray of sandwiches. His stomach grumbled, and he frowned.

''Just about to seek him out, don't rush me.''

''Alright, alright... I always knew he was more on the sensitive side, but I didn't think it would get to _you_ as well. Take your time, and don't worry, dear - whatever it is, I am sure you will work it out.'' She gave him the sweetest smile and opened the fridge, then gasped in shock and stumbled back. '' _Eyeballs_?!''

''He put them in my Tupperware,'' John explained hurriedly and jumped up, ''and I couldn't just throw them away, so...''

''On my best plate? Oh, _John_!'' She scowled at him, then grimaced and quickly shut the door again. ''You two, you are disgusting, you know that? I didn't expect anything else from him, but _you_... as a _doctor_! Do you know how unhygienic that is?!''

''I... have a vague idea,'' he muttered through clenched teeth, then stepped up to her to take the tray off her hands. The sight made his stomach grumble again, and she sniffed.

''Now, I don't know what happened between you three, and I don't want to know,'' she lied so fluently he couldn't entirely suppress an frown, ''but you take these to him _right now_ and make up and get over this, you hear me? Nothing against Mycroft, but he really isn't worth it, so just ignore him. And then you'll take care of these... things.'' She waved her hand towards the fridge. ''I want them gone by tomorrow!''

''There is no reason to make up,'' he told her with hardly veiled impatience, ''because we didn't fight. Yes, I'll take care of them, don't worry. Good night.'' He raised the plate. ''And thank you.'' The landlady scowled at him, then let her shoulder slump with a sigh and ran a hand through her short red hair.

''I really don't know what will become of you if you ever find yourselves a proper home without me to take care of you. He likes dogs, did you know that? You should get a dog.''

''We are not dating!'' he yelled loud enough to have her flinch, patience at an end, and the look she gave him in return was poisonous. John bared his teeth, realizing for the umpteenth time that it didn't matter. She simply didn't care. In her mind he and Sherlock were a couple, and while he tried to find a way, _any_ way to convince her that was decidedly not the case her face smoothed again. With a smirk she patted his arm.

''It's alright, I'll leave you to it. Have a good night.''

''Thank you, we will,'' he growled back, his fingers painfully tense around the plate. ''I'll go to him right now and hug him and apologize and massage his damn feet and his neck and whatever else I can reach and then I'll crawl into his bloody bed and we'll peacefully fall asleep while talking about getting a damn dog, is _that_ what you want?!''

''See? That sounds more like it. Good night dear.'' With that she left, and John stared after her, chest heaving and lowering in angered frustration and only then realizing that he had made a grave mistake.

She'd never let it go after _this_.

He cursed. Stared at the sandwiches. Pondered whether to just let it go, hole himself up in his room and let Sherlock take the case on his own.

After a minute or two he took a deep breath, gathered his focus and made his way to Sherlock's door.

''Finally.'' It flew open before he had even managed to knock, and Sherlock stormed out, his dark locks a tangled mess, gleaming excitement in his eyes. ''Now, half an hour for dinner and questions, and then we have to go.'' The grin on his lips was close to mischievous. ''This case is getting better and better!''

''You...'' John stared at him, then padded after him when the detective hurried into the parlor. ''You were waiting for me?'' he asked incredulously as he set down the tray, and Sherlock smirked.

''Of course I was. You needed some time to sort your thoughts. Now, sit down and eat and ask your questions, we're in a hurry.''

''Jesus.'' John didn't even have it in him to feel insulted at the incidental way in which Sherlock pointed out his predictability. Maybe he _was_ predictable. With a scowl he dropped back down into his arm chair and looked up at Sherlock. The detective was standing near the desk, hands clasped behind his back, regarding him with an expectant smile. John licked his lips, then nodded at the second arm chair.

''Sit.''

''Can't.'' A short smile darted over Sherlock's lips. ''Eat.''

''Once you sit.'' The demand brought a surprised scowl to the detective's face, but to John's relief he complied. The doctor nodded at the sandwiches. He felt like starving, but he _wa_ s a doctor – and Mrs. Hudson wasn't exactly wrong. Not with everything at least.

Sherlock needed to eat.

''We'll leave once you've eaten your share,'' he let his friend know, then grabbed one of the sandwiches to set a good example. Ham and egg. Bless her.

Sherlock huffed.

''No. Slows me down.''

''So does blacking out from fatigue. Eat.'' John glared at him. ''Doctor's orders.''

''John...''

''Eat! I've had it with you for today, so eat before I get my gun and make you. Eat!''

''Alright.'' Sherlock blinked, then slowly reached for a sandwich. He seemed reluctant to take a bite, but even from his side of the tray John could hear his stomach grumble. When Sherlock finally gave in and dug his teeth into the sandwich the doctor smirked.

''Thank you.'' Once he saw his friend actually take a bite and chew, annoyance and impatience mingling with the faintest hint of relief over getting something to eat, John allowed himself to give in as well, and it was the best thing he had done all day. With a happy sigh he leaned back and chewed with a blissful smile.

''Perfect,'' he murmured after swallowing, eliciting a consenting hum from Sherlock, and for a few minutes they just sat and ate, now and then looking at each other and quickly averting their gazes again. John tried not to make anything of it, but it wasn't that easy. Something between them had changed, and when his eyes once more met Sherlock's before darting on he knew that his friend was feeling it too. It was enervating, to say the least. With a scowl he forced down the last of his sandwich, then poured them some tea. Sherlock watched him, silent and thoughtful, and to John's surprise he actually reached for another sandwich, his third by now, the only proof of how starved he had actually been. Bloody fool. One day he'd just drop dead if he kept this up.

''Now,'' John finally murmured when he had leaned back, cup in hand. ''Questions.'' He saw Sherlock nod and gathered his focus, ready for whatever clarity the detective could give him. After a few seconds he remembered where he had wanted to start. ''How did you know about Tellson's? And... what is Tellson's, really?''

Sherlock looked as if he wanted to speak, then frowned, sped up his chewing and swallowed with a groan to hurry and answer.

''A bank.'' John rolled his eyes

''No shit, Sherlock, what kind of bank? What's so special about it?''

''Nothing. Not anymore, now that Allister is dead.'' Sherlock picked up his cup and took a sip, looking bored. ''He worked for Mycroft and his... people. Kept an eye on their transitions, I'd wager, notified them of unusual occurrences, something like that. Apart from that it is a normal bank and he was a normal clerk and there is nothing special about it at all.''

''I see.'' John frowned. Not exactly what he had expected, but okay. At least he now had Sherlock by his side, comparatively calm, fed and ready to answer some questions. Whatever he had missed on this case, now he'd find out. Had to. Stumbling through the dark was making him twitchy. ''And how do _you_ know about it?''

''Coincidence, really.'' To his surprise Sherlock gave him that boyish grin again. ''I remembered the name, remembered seeing their crest before... a few months ago, in Mycroft's office. Back then it was a rather unpleasant visit, but in hindsight more than worth it.''

''So?'' John didn't follow. ''It could have just been a reminder to upgrade his account to Arrogant Bastard Deluxe.'' The comment brought an amused sparkle to Sherlock's eyes, but he decidedly shook his head.

''All his accounts are with the Royal Bank, and why would they send mail to his office? It was clearly business-related, and a rather careless mistake on his side to leave it lying around. I didn't want to tell him immediately, I'll wait a few more days and once he realizes that he doesn't know how _I_ could know he'll slowly, gradually start going crazy about it until he will _beg_ me to tell him.'' The grin shifted and now held all the satisfaction of a man who had been forced to endure one jab too many. It was petty and childish and so typically Sherlock that John couldn't help but smirk.

''Alright. Simple deduction, then, you figured that Allister might have worked for Mycroft...''

''...and once he showed up I could be certain.'' Sherlock nodded. ''Rather thoughtless of him, if he had kept himself in check I'd still be guessing.'' He looked smug. ''Oh, this will make Christmas _so_ much more enjoyable.'' For a moment John had a rather peculiar image before his inner eye – Sherlock, Mycroft and the unidentified people that had to be their parents, grouped around the Christmas tree and singing merry carols while the two brothers tried to exchange nudges and kicks without anyone noticing. It was so much like them, grown men or not, that John had to grin.

''Next question, hurry, hurry – we don't have all night.'' Sherlock emptied his cup and put it back down before returning to impatient fidgeting with his hands, a clear sign of his inner agitation. John rolled his eyes but complied.

''Why heroin?'' The expected answer stayed out, and instead Sherlock just... looked at him. John frowned. It wasn't the Face, it wasn't surprise, it wasn't enervation or boredom, but something... something on the man's face had shifted. Had darkened. For a few seconds they stared at each other, finally making eye contact, finally not averting their gazes, and although it was nice to see they could still do that John eventually gave in.

'' _What_? Don't just look at me, what is it?'' he asked, involuntarily disconcerted by the intense stare. Sherlock sighed as if he had just realized he was talking to a child.

''Isn't that obvious? It's me.''

''You?'' He still didn't understand. ''What about you?''

''John...'' Now Sherlock rolled his eyes. ''Heroin. Moriarty. _Me_.'' He looked at him with wide eyes, obviously waiting for something to fall into place, but whether it was because he was tired or because it simply made no sense, John didn't understand. After a few more seconds Sherlock scowled.

''It's Moriarty, John. That's what Mycroft was hinting at – in his stupid, annoying, petty little game which he will probably try and play forever.'' His eyes narrowed at the memory, then returned to John. ''Moriarty. Heroin. Come _on_ , John, it's all there, don't pretend you don't...''

''I don't.'' The doctor didn't even try to hide his confusion, instead crossed his arms and shook his head. ''I have _no_ idea what you're going on about. Enlighten me. And... Jesus, who or what is Moriarty?''

'' _What_?!'' Now Sherlock seemed genuinely appalled. ''Moriarty! Jeff Hope? The Case in Pink?'' His eyes shortly flickered when he searched his memory for the name of their first joint case, and John blinked.

''What about it?'' Then realization struck. ''Oh! _That_ Moriarty.''

''Yes, _that_ Moriarty... how many people named Moriarty do you know? Seriously, John, do you even _listen_ to me?'' Sherlock looked insulted, and John gave him an incredulous stare.

''Do I even... Sherlock, _all I do_ is listen to you, the problem is that I simply cannot hear you when you keep on talking although I'm not even in the same house! I'm not... I'm not always there, you know? And you never actually _told_ me about... Moriarty. I only heard that name once in a blue moon, when you were dozing off and muttering to yourself or something like that, you never... _who the hell is Moriarty_?''

''I have absolutely no idea!'' Sherlock shouted as if that was the point he had tried to convey. ''I. Don't. Know!'' By now they were both at the edges of their seats, their faces merely an arm's length apart, and when John saw the excitement in his friend's radiant eyes, the tension, the frustration, the thrill, he finally realized. A piece of the puzzle fell into place. His shoulders slumped.

''You. You and your addiction, that's why... this case is for you!''

''And Moriarty wants to get to me, yes! Our murderous cabbie told me that _I_ had a fan, that _he_ had had a sponsor, that the name was _Moriarty_ , and ever since I encountered that name again and again... he's everywhere, John.'' Sherlock's eyes held a feverish gleam. ''He's everywhere, and he's after me. He wants me to hunt him, he...''

''Why?'' John shook his head and blinked. ''That makes no sense.''

''He's obsessed.'' Sherlock licked his lips, then shot him a surprising smile. It looked absolutely dazzling, a mixture of anticipation, pride and fascination. ''It's a game.''

''A game.'' John nodded. ''A game. People die, but that's okay... because it's a game.''

''Don't be ridiculous, it's not okay... oh, but he is good.'' Sherlock darted from his seat and started pacing. ''He is clever...''

''How is he clever? Randomly killing people with heroin in the hope that you'd notice...''

''John!'' Sherlock spun back around. ''There is nothing random about it, open your eyes!'' He straightened, nodded to himself and took a deep breath. ''If I were to ask him... I _promise_ you, Mycroft would tell me that the car accident last month... that the victim ended up at Bart's. So did Allister. _Bart's_ , because that's the most likely place for me to encounter them. Both killed with heroin, seemingly to cover the fact they were murdered, but that's not it.'' He blinked, stared at John with so much enthusiasm his face seemed to glow. ''He knows about Mycroft, knows that he's my brother... knows what he does, whose death he would notice, what would make him come to me and guide my attention towards this case. He... it's like a trace of bread crumbs, John - the heroin, the double bottom, the targets, Bart's... sooner or later I _had_ to catch on, it _had_ to catch my attention, and _that_ is what he wanted... to get me involved. He is doing it for _me_.''

''Okay.'' John bit his lip, not too sure what to make of it. ''That's... creepy. Not exactly good, I mean, we have two dead guys, maybe more, and a maniac who slaphappily murders his way through London to play cops and robbers... and then we have _you_ , grinning like an idiot.'' He shook his head, then glared at his friend. ''Stop it. Stop grinning like that, there are people _dead_ , you don't get to grin at that!''

''Ah, the people.'' Sherlock scowled. ''This isn't about _them_. This is...'' He fell silent, then dropped back down into his chair, closed his eyes and placed his palms against each other, seamlessly slipping into a state of focused oblivion. John blinked.

''Excuse me?''

''Be quiet, I beg you... this is brilliant.''

''You are impossible.'' The doctor pressed his palms against his face. ''Murder, Sherlock, it's not brilliant, it's murder, cold-hearted and perverted and resulting in bodies! Get a hold on yourself.''

''That's what I am trying to do,'' Sherlock murmured, shortly opening his eyes to stare at John. ''I need to focus.''

''You need to sleep.''

''Not now.''

''Oh yes, _now_.'' John jumped up, not entirely sure what he was supposed to do but certain on one thing – he wouldn't let Sherlock leave the house like that, psychopathic serial killers angling for his attention be damned. Not before he had slept.

Sherlock glared at him.

''There's no time.''

''Sherlock.'' John took a deep breath. Forcing him to pay some heed to his health... it was pointless. It never worked, never would, but he had to try. The moment he had entered his friend's room this morning, found him sprawled out on the ground, covered in sweat with blood on his lips and a hunted expression in his eyes, that moment he had known that the detective's night had been far from restful, and if this case really turned out to be as dangerous as Mycroft had warned him... no. They had to get some sleep, both of them, and _then_ John would follow Sherlock into some murderous conspiracy, some psychotic game, some messed up personalized nightmare – but not now.

Now he would take a stand.

Before he could think of a better strategy he had turned around and plucked his friend's coat off the hook, and from behind he heard a surprised sound.

''What are you – put that down!''

''No.'' John looked over his shoulder and saw that Sherlock had jumped up, a seldom, absolute lack of comprehension on his face. It was adorable, and the doctor shot him a grim smile, relieved to see that he had managed to break the man's focus. ''If you want to borrow my cardigan as a substitute... be my guest. But your coat stays with me.'' He pressed it against his chest and turned towards the stairs, determined to see this through. Sherlock never left the house without his trademark coat, _never_ , and John had never tried to take him from him before. Maybe this could work. Or maybe the detective would draw the line and try to knock him out, but that was a risk John was willing to take.

After he had taken the first three steps of the stairs to his room he realized that Sherlock still hadn't tried to hold him back, and he turned back with a frown. The detective stood where he had left him, lips parted, and stared at him with frozen amazement. His eyes were gleaming, his fingers were clenching and opening, but apparently he was at an utter loss, and John had to grin.

''Go to bed, Sherlock. Sleep.'' He nodded at the coat draped over his arm. ''You'll get it back tomorrow.''

''That's... that's blackmail,'' Sherlock stated incredulously, then finally took a tentative step towards John and scowled. ''You are blackmailing me!''

''Absolutely, yes.'' John smiled at him. ''And I have to admit, it's rather enjoyable. Good night.'' He jogged up the stairs, somewhat satisfied with himself. Of course this was no guarantee that Sherlock would stay, but maybe... maybe it could work. And as threats and reasoning and shouting usually had no effect, the coat was definitely worth a try.

Only when he heard the telltale sound of hurried footsteps hunting up the stairs he slowed down, and a heartbeat later Sherlock appeared on the landing before his room and stared at him, apparently still confused.

''So... I sleep, you give me my coat,'' he stated as if to make sure he had gotten it right. John, one hand already on the handle of his door, frowned.

''That's the idea, yes.''

''Fine.'' Sherlock pushed past him, opened the door and marched inside his unlit room. ''Then let's hurry.''

''What?!'' John blinked and shot after him, just in time to see his friend drop down on his bed. ''Are you... are you out of your mind?''

''John, please.'' Sherlock had apparently overcome his momentary shock and looked at him with so much calm and composure that the doctor couldn't help but feel amazed. He had expected a fight, some insults, another brilliant attack that left him torn to pieces... but not this. Not for Sherlock to just... turn the tables. That bastard.

''In my bed.'' John pursed his lips, fingers tensing against the rough fabric of the coat, and studied his friend, unsure what to do. ''You will _not_ sleep in my bed, Sherlock. Out.''

''Give me my coat.''

''No!''

''You are childish.''

'' _You_ are childish!''

''You started it.'' Sherlock crossed his arms and leaned back. Even in the dim half light that seeped in from the door John could see how smug he looked, and he had to remind himself that Sherlock was no fool. An idiot, yes, a ridiculous, brilliant, enervating man-child with no concept of how humans actually worked, but no fool. And he was very well aware what he was doing, as his next words proved. ''Coat or sleep... _your_ choice.'' There was a hint of sadistic pleasure in his voice.

''You...'' John clenched his teeth and glared at him. Finally he sucked in some air, then crossed the room and dropped down next to the man. '' _Fine_.'' He turned around, away from Sherlock, and closed his arms around the coat to make sure the detective didn't try to pull it from his grasp. For some time neither of them said a word, and then he heard a sigh.

''This will be awfully boring.'' It sounded sulky.

''Then sleep.'' John scowled, felt Sherlock shift, then listened to another sigh.

''Can't.''

''Then go and switch off the lights.'' He had entirely forgotten. All lights were on, all doors were open and he hadn't even changed, still wore his day clothes. Pressed Sherlock's coat against his chest. Had the man sitting next to him, _in his bed_ , fidgeting and groaning like a petulant child.

Why couldn't his life just be _normal_?

''Don't want to.'' Seconds passed, and despite his enervation and the fact that he was still fully clothed John felt the first signs of tiredness creep up on him. He blinked, tried to keep himself awake, but even with Sherlock next to him, radiating warmth and sulk and annoyance, he realized he couldn't keep it at bay forever. He would fall asleep, and then Sherlock would wrestle the coat from him and leave. This had been a stupid idea to begin with.

With a huff he got up.

''What are you doing?'' Sherlock sounded surprised. John snarled.

''Turn off the lights, change and brush my teeth. What do you do before you go to bed?'' He didn't wait for a response, just grabbed his pyjamas from his bed and marched out of his room, back down the stairs and into the bathroom, still clutching that damn coat. Maybe Sherlock would realize this was pointless. Maybe he'd just leave.

But when John returned ten minutes later he was still there. In his own pyjamas. He had even slipped under the covers, apparently more than determined to see this through, and he didn't even have the decency to look sheepish. John bared his teeth, dropped his clothes on a chair and shut the door.

''You sure about this? If anyone ever finds out that you've been sleeping in my bed...''

''Don't be ridiculous.'' Sherlock shifted to turn his head and look at John. He looked so utterly relaxed, so fine with this, that John couldn't suppress a smirk. Sherlock in _his_ bed, dark locks spread on _his_ pillow, sprawled out under _his_ sheets... eyes locked on him. Not on the coat, on _him_.

And here he had been, wondering whether something had changed.

It obviously had, but not in the way he had suspected.

With a sigh he hit the switch and slipped under covers, careful to confine himself to his side of the bed – _his_ bed -, and placed the coat on the mattress to pin it down with his body, not trusting his friend to not try and steal it from him. Behind him Sherlock cleared his throat.

''There... there's a blade in the sleeve. You might want to...''

''It's on the kitchen table.''

''Oh.'' Sherlock seemed surprised. ''Good.'' Apparently he hadn't expected John to know. Once again they fell silent. John tried to relax, tried to make do with the small patch of space he felt comfortable occupying, tried to ignore the familiar scent of Sherlock's coat cloaking him and the combined warmth of their bodies mingling under the covers. This was surreal. Not in a bad way, he realized, he didn't feel uncomfortable. If he was honest with himself he savored it, very well aware of Sherlock's stance when it came to physical proximity. Sleeping in the same bed, with not much space to spare... it was an unspoken message that John couldn't quite decipher, not now, not when his lids were growing heavy and his breathing fell into a steady rhythm and Sherlock had apparently decided to be considerate for once and not pester him with his sighs.

Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow, when they were rested and ready and had some time to spare. When they had spoken about what had happened in the taxi. When they were not so close that John just had to turn to touch Sherlock's face. The memories of the previous night, of the detective's dazed, incoherent muttering against his shoulder once more returned to his mind, and he had to smile. Maybe Sherlock had meant it after all.

He buried his face in the coat and closed his eyes.

A few seconds later he had already fallen asleep.

 


End file.
